Honoring the Dead
by Cheryl W
Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.
1. Chapter 1

Honoring the Dead

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.

Author's Note: It's been awhile since I could pen anything so I hope this is OK. I know the storyline seems similar to 'Page out of their Book' but I hope it's different enough to be entertaining. Besides, the storyline was a perfect opening for some Dean abuse –physically and emotionally. And compared to that…who needs originality right?

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Chapter 1

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He didn't deserve this reprieve, Dean knew that. Not when Sam was just hours out of the panic room, not when Sam didn't have much more color that morning than he did last night when he had pulled the sheets over his brother's shivering form in an honest to goodness bed, not when his brother's voice was still rough from days of screaming…for him. Not when Sam was skittish at his touch and wouldn't meet his eyes. Not when the knowledge that it might not last: Sam's lack of withdrawals, Sam being clean, the fortifications holding that they had erected at Bobby's house against supernatural visitors, them being alive, neither of them screaming "yes" at the top of their lungs just to end it. To end all of it. No matter how.

Tightening his hands on the Impala's steering wheel, Dean wasn't sure if he should continue to curse Bobby for ordering him to go on a food run or thank the man for his obvious effort to give him a break from the hopelessness that still permeated the very air in the house.

It was early yet, a little past 7 in the morning but it wasn't like he had been asleep or anything. Because sleep? It wasn't a usual companion for him anymore. And breakfast? The food run? It was for Bobby more than anyone else. Sam probably couldn't keep anything down, Cas had whisked himself off after Bobby had cruelly offered to fry up a nice greasy burger for him. And Dean himself? Hunger was just another thing he couldn't feel.

So the South Dakota road was bare in front of him and behind him, offering few mysteries until he would hit the next hill. It didn't matter though, because, lately? He couldn't bear to look in his rearview mirror or the view ahead. Both were miles of bad choices and worse outcomes. So he was moving forward even as he wished that everything would just stop. Course that certainly didn't mean that he wanted to stay in the present, because the present? It made him ache to drive the Impala off a cliff.

His breath hitched out of him. There was no one around to see him break. And after his unanswered prayer from two nights' ago, he wasn't worried that anyone was listening either. He was alone right then. But not more than he had ever been. There had been an aloneness in hell that was agony in and of itself. There he had been alone, vulnerable, cursed, damned. '_So not much has changed,_' he cynically compared.

He nearly crossed the road's double yellow line, out of carelessness or reckless intent, had the Impala tires treading the yellow paint when he crested the hill…and found a car in his path..or him in theirs. Swerving, he yanked the Impala back to the right side of the road, cringed waiting for the swap of paint from his car and the brown jeep. He would have called it a miracle that there was no grinding of metal on metal, if he believed in miracles any more.

And then he was by the jeep, coasting down the hill. Though he was coming off of a week of events and emotions that would have decimated lesser men, of barely eating, of not sleeping more than a few winks between his brother's cry for him and the eerie quiet, he had not missed the familiarity of the jeep, had caught enough of a glimpse of the driver when they went head to head to have an impression of who was behind the wheel.

Bringing the Impala to a stop, he sat there, car idling and eyes on the rearview mirror. Knew that, if he was right, things would go one of two ways. Frustration and a warning of dread washed over him as the jeep made an appearance behind him, crested over the hill, approached as if its current direction was its destination the whole time. The closer the vehicle got, the more Dean's suspicions were confirmed: the driver was a fellow hunter, was probably on his way to Bobby's to utilize the older hunter's impressive knowledge of the supernatural.

'_Crappy time for visitors to stop in_,' Dean bitterly thought, tallying the house's occupants' readiness for company: One wheelchair bound hunter, one addict coming off a detox and him – the guy who was dead inside. "Sounds like a fun group to party with," he sardonically said under his breath as he rested his right hand on the gun tucked in the waist of his pants. For good measure, he slipped off the gun's safety and cocked it because, allies these days weren't to be trusted. '_Sam's proof of that_,' mentally slipped out and he hated himself for that judgment, for his inability to truly forgive his brother. Sam's insistence that he get to Bobby's, be locked in the panic room, _alone_, it spoke volumes about how badly his brother didn't want to tread that path again. To hurt him, to betray him again.

The jeep came to a stop ten yards behind and Dean watched the driver get out of the car, couldn't hear what he said to his two companions before he began walking for the Impala. Feeling the most secure right where he was, behind the Impala's wheel, Dean waited for the hunter to reach his door, divided his attention between watching the rearview mirror and his side mirror. Cursed the blond, early twenty year old's lazy walk, the click of boots on highway and the way the man crouched down by his window, forcing him to change the angle of his head, to lose his ability to keep an eye on the jeep behind and the man by his door.

"This baby, she's one in a million. I can always spot her," the young hunter drawled, patting the hood of the Impala, earning no points with the Impala's owner at his endearment.

Dean offered up a bland smile. "Devon, you're pretty far from your home base."

The younger man shifted in his crouched position, looked up at Winchester through the window Dean had opened moments before, "Heading out to a job but wanted Singer's help figuring out what we might be up against. He's not quit the life, has he? Since…well…" the hunter pretended that he couldn't say 'since he became paralyzed from the waist down' but Dean suspected it was more ploy than squeamishness that halted the man's words.

When Winchester didn't step in to provide him with the words, Devon used his own. "Well, since he got _gutted_ saving your life, was reduced to being _half a man_," he sneered, offering insult and accusation in one breath, goading the older hunter to react.

Anger flared in Dean but he knew the other man wanted that from him, for him to react, for him to give him a reason to pull out the gun Dean knew the hunter had tucked against his spine. Devon was a hot head, was always looking for a fight, in the past years had come to not mind much if it was with a person instead of something supernatural. Dean seared his gaze into Devon, gave a deadly smile and spoke lowly, menacingly but evenly, "Bobby's more man than you'll ever be, wheelchair or no wheelchair, Devon."

Devon shifted in his crouch but didn't counter Dean's claim. "You know, I keep forgetting that you're hung up on hero worship. First it was your old man and now it's Singer." He moved closer, wrapped his hand around the Impala's window frame. "They aren't heroes, Dean. Calling Bobby Singer a hunter, even before his unfortunate last hunt with you is being waaaayyy generous." He let his voice drop to a mockingly stage whisper, "And your old man, Dean? You were just another weapon in his trunk, he kept you around because you were _useful_, everyone knew that. You didn't actually think he did it because he loved you, did you?!" He gave a cruel bark of laughter at the very notion of Dean believing that.

The words stung Dean because there was truth in them. For all of the proof that said his father loved him, there was equal proof that he had been used, was his father's blunt little instrument of revenge, that, had he not proven himself a useful hunter, his father would have ditched him at some orphanage.

But Devon had miscalculated. Dean Winchester was a man of many walls, of masks and layers. You peeled one away, you just were stone walled by the next one.

Smiling, Dean drawled, "Least he didn't bail on me when I was ten …like your old man did. Guess its better to be used as a weapon than being a mistake someone wants to put in their rearview mirror." Devon's fury was palable..and his move for his gun was pathetically easy to predict. Dean had his gun leveled at Devon's head before the younger hunter's hand barely began to reach behind him. Devon froze, eyes blazing with hatred. "Get back in your car and stay away from Bobby. Or being paralyzed? It'll seem a blessing compared to what I will do to you," Dean lowly threatened, no hint of leniency in his icy green eyes.

Dean watched Devon's eyes flick to the right, to his jeep and his companions. But Dean didn't have to look to know that no one had gotten out of the jeep to rescue Devon. He had been in the game too long not to have a sixth sense when it came to getting snuck up on. Since no one was coming to back up Devon's play, it made no logical sense when the younger hunter smiled widely, looked like he had just cornered his prey.

"Your cockiness; it's what I always admired about you, Dean. No matter how bad the odds, you always came up swinging. Even when it seemed you were about to lose, you never backed down," Devon said but his smile faded away, was replaced by a grimness and a grief Dean felt bone deep. "What I never realized before was just how many people you were willing to sacrifice to get your victory, how many lives had to be lost just so you could walk away, live another day."

Dean's breath caught in his chest, the younger hunter's sentiments unexpected and just truthful enough to cut bone deep. "What…" he stammered, even as Devon raised his hands as if in surrender.

"Judgment comes to everyone, Dean. Even to you," Devon coldly promised.

Somewhere it registered: the shattering of the Impala's back window, the spray of glass, the crack of a long distance rifle shot. Dean was ducking at the first indicator of the attack, felt glass pelt him as he pressed his head between his left knee and the door. Then the bullet hit the windshield. He was reaching to put the Impala in drive when something slammed into the back of his head. He felt himself falling toward the Impala's bench seat, had the crazy thought that, if Sam was with him, if they were _together_, his head would be landing in Sam's lap. Then his face connected, not with the comforting flesh of his brother but with the Impala's interior.

As consciousness seeped away, Dean knew only regrets: That he hadn't shot Devon when he had the chance, that he wasn't going to be stopping the hunters from going to Bobby's. But most of all, he hated that, last night in the panic room, when Sam had reached for him, he had flinched away. Sam hadn't wanted to attack him, or choke him or kill him, had only wanted his help in getting off the cot, his help to get out of the hellish confines of the panic room. But more than that, Sam had wanted to connect with him, had wanted some proof that they were still brothers, that whatever distorted version of him that had been playing in his head doing the detox, it wasn't real.

Sam had simply wanted him with him, had trusted him to help him, even after everything.

'_I always let down the people I love._' Then Dean went under, knew nothing else but darkness.

TBC

Thanks for reading! Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	2. Chapter 2

Honoring the Dead

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.

Author's Note: Thanks for the wonderful encouragement on chapter 1!

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Chapter 2

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Bobby wasn't the most perceptive of men, but he knew Sam Winchester was angry with him, was glaring at him across the living room space, had been ever since he had sent his brother on a trip to the store. Slapping the ancient tome he was reading down on his desk, Bobby raised his head to meet Sam's cold eyes. "Alright. Spit it out."

Not willing to pretend confusion, Sam retorted back, judgment in his tone, "Why did you send Dean away?" his anger at his brother's forced absence growing by leaps and bounds as the minutes passed.

"For food," Bobby grumbled, returning to his book. Wondered how he could have failed to predict how Sam would feel about Dean being out of his eyesight now that he was finally freed from the panic room.

Sam raised a tired hand toward the kitchen, "You have cupboards full of food," indignation in his rising tone, as if Bobby was implying that food mattered more than the physical reassurance of Dean there, of having all of his hallucinations of Dean leaving, Dean being gone, proven wrong.

"Different kind of food," Bobby returned, keeping anger out of his voice and his eyes on the words he was no longer reading.

"I might have been out of it for days but I can still tell a lie when I hear it," Sam accused, hated to think that Bobby was testing him, had purposefully made Dean leave his side to see if he could handle the separation. That Bobby thought what the therapist had: that he and Dean were dangerously co-dependent.

"Really," Bobby scoffed, unable to hold back the anger at Sam's accusation, especially when he had done nothing but try and _help_ the two men he loved like sons. "That's funny coming from the guy who ate up Ruby's lies with…" he broke off, face paler than Sam's at his misstep. He hadn't meant to go there. Ever

Sam bowed his head, hid from Bobby's accusation and anger. The truth was the truth, there was no use in sugar coating it. He was the last person to have the right to brag about being a lie detector. Ruby had fed him lie after lie with her dainty hand and he had thanked her each and every time.

Silence fell and Bobby felt like the worst fool and friend. But the words…he couldn't recount them. They were all his this time and, if he were honest with himself, he meant them. The boy should have had more sense than pick anyone over his family, especially when his family consisted of a brother who had gone to hell for him. If there was a greater sign of brotherly love, Bobby didn't think he'd ever heard of it.

Needing to get the answers he sought, Sam broke the silence after a few minutes. "Dean looked pale…exhausted," his voice quiet, worried eyes tracking up to Bobby again.

Bobby sighed. Sometimes he forgot how complicated these boys were, that their love for each other, it didn't fit in a nice box, wasn't expressed by a cutesy Hallmark card, was something alive, changing, ebbing and flowing but never ceasing. "Yeah, like you're the poster boy for health," he lightly shot back, wanting to distract Sam's worry for Dean. Worry that Bobby had himself. He had seen the way Dean had worn himself down since Sam had walked willingly back into that panic room.

But Sam wasn't distracted, never was when it came to his brother's wellbeing. "He shouldn't be out by himself."

Cursing Sam's one track mind, the older hunter sarcastically drawled, "I didn't know you two had mandated the buddy system."

"Has he been eating…sleeping?" Sam asked, had wondered that the second the panic room door had swung open, his brother drew closer and he had finally gotten to look at his brother. Not his hallucinations masquerading as the beloved form but the real Dean.

And it had been wrong for the real thing to look so ….vulnerable, fragile, broken. It was like another stab of withdrawal going through him, this time piercing into his heart. But that didn't compare to the shaft of pain he felt when he reached out to touch Dean, to reassure himself that it was really his brother there and Dean had jerked away. His reaching hand meeting air instead of flesh, it was so like a hallucination but a million times more painful.

Bobby's guilt at his failure to have Dean eat or sleep surfaced as anger. "Do I look like your brother's doctor?"

Sam's eyes sharpened at Bobby's use of the word 'doctor'. He had been around the older man long enough to know that he didn't choose his words carelessly.

Bobby plunged forward, on the defensive, his own emotional weariness showing. "Maybe you're forgetting that it was you we weren't sure was going to make it."

Sam mistook Bobby's statement as an accusation directed at him. '_As if I wanted to get re-addicted, wanted to go through the agony of withdrawal, that I enjoy the doubt that sparks in Dean's eyes when he looks at me, that my own brother recoils from my touch_.' Angrily, he came to his feet, though he swayed a moment. "Yeah and I counted on you to make sure he was OK," he heatedly charged, had always trusted Bobby to protect Dean if he couldn't.

"Like he was going to listen to me!? He wouldn't even listen to Cas! What were we supposed to do? Knock him out and drag him away from your door? Force feed him?" When Sam looked away, it didn't feel like a victory to Bobby, felt like just another loss on the growing pile of losses. And he was so sick of losing, of watching what each loss did to Sam, to Dean. "No, I really want you to tell me how to stop Dean from caring about you?" Bobby pushed, voice rising with his blood pressure. He had been through too many rounds of the same grief to bury it under this time. Neither Sam nor Dean knew what it was like to try and keep the surviving Winchester alive and sane. How impossible the task was when he himself was drowning in grief. And yeah, no one was dead this go around but it had been a near thing….like it always was with his boys.

Sam shook his head, not in denial but frustration and began to pace the room, steps faltering but radiating tension. "So that's a '_no_' on Dean sleeping and a '_no_' on his eating and you thought…what the heck? Send him on an errand while he's exhausted, way off his game and has a price on his head?!"

"What I _thought _was you two needed some time apart," Bobby tersely explained, through with tactfully deflecting Sam's inquiries to spare the kid more pain.

"Time apart?" Sam incredulously spat, turning to face Bobby, hands going wide. "We haven't been in the same room for a _week_, Bobby!"

"And now that you are, you can't even meet each other's gaze," the older man bluntly observed. "You walk around each other like you're wondering who is going to draw first blood. If I got you both from the animal shelter, I'ld figure you're never going to get along, that I should go ahead and return one of you already." At that illustration, Sam paled and Bobby knew that he had gone too far. Saying that the brothers were acting prissy around one another was one thing. Saying that they couldn't work things out, didn't belong together? That was practically a death sentence. "Sam I didn't…" he stammered, backpedaling, sick that he had implied the brothers should part ways.

"Screw you, Bobby," Sam spat, didn't even want to hear the older man's retraction. The words had been said and Bobby couldn't take them back. It didn't help that he had been plagued with worries of that becoming true, of him and Dean _never_ fitting back together again. And that worry had only grown stronger with every second he was sequestered away from Dean, that the addiction held onto him, chained him to a future that he didn't want, not if it didn't include his brother.

"You don't get to decide what happens between Dean and me," Sam said acidly. But the qualification of '_Dean does_' was there, unspoken. He would let it be Dean's decision what happened now, between them, if they stayed together. He would not foist himself on Dean, not after he had betrayed him all over again, had proven that he wasn't someone his brother could trust to have his back, to not fall off the wagon. That, if he regained his powers ever again, he would use them. Couldn't generate one shred of guilt at having used them in that restaurant, not when his brother's life had been on the line. Knew that, he would always do whatever he had to do to save Dean. Even if it horrified Dean, like using his powers always did. '_But it isn't like Dean making his deal to save me hadn't horrified me. Crap, Dean's right. What we are willing to do for each other, how far we'll go…Where do we draw the line? Do we even have a line?'_

Bobby rolled closer to Sam, wished he had the ability to grab the kid by the arms, to make sure the kid didn't walk out, that he listed to him, really listen to him. "I didn't mean that the way it …"

"When Dean gets back, we'll leave, give you back your peace and quiet," Sam briskly announced, overriding Bobby's lame apology. Turning away from Bobby and heading up the stairs, he was already wondering if he would survive if Dean once again said they were better apart, that their love for one another, their bonds of brotherhood were proving to be a fatal weakness instead of a fortifying strength that would lead them to victory. '_Whatever Dean decides_, _I have to accept it. Whether it kills me or not. I owe Dean that much._'

Bobby watched Sam stalk out of the room, knew that no words could make up for what he had said, had implied. '_I should be the last one second guessing how much they love each other! What they can overcome if they have each other_.' He had seen them lose each other and there was nothing in the world he could give to them, that anyone could give to them to make that better. And he had seen them find each other again…had even gotten choked up himself at their reunions. '_I should have never interfered today, sent Dean off, split them up. Not now, not after they just barely survived the last round of crap this war threw at them.' _If anyone knew what each man needed…it was his brother. "Now who's the biggest idgit?" Bobby chastised himself, hated to think of how empty his house would feel once Dean returned and Sam followed through on his threat. Once his heart-adopted sons left him behind.

He had started the day wondering how the Winchesters thought they could stay together, broken as they were. And now, it was him who was going to lose. There was no doubt in his mind that Dean would leave with his brother. That all Sam needed to do was ask and Dean would do it. That to lose one brother's favor was to lose both.

'_But I'm not losing them without a fight_,' Bobby vowed, slamming the book shut and wishing Dean hadn't purposely placed all his best bottles of liquor on the top shelf, entirely out of his reach.

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The knock on the back door was entirely unwelcome. Dean wouldn't dare knock, Castiel just fluttered into a room whenever he pleased and evil things had a tendency to kick doors in. "Who is it?!" Bobby shouted gruffly, staying behind his desk, not interested in seeing anyone right then.

"It's Devon," a familiar voice called from outside the door.

Bobby rubbed his mouth. He knew the young hunter, wasn't sure yet if he liked him or not, regardless that he had known him for years. "I'm busy, kid. Call Rufus or hit a library yourself for a change."

"Got someone injured."

"Hospital's ten miles due south on route 87," Bobby supplied, too emotionally raw to spare empathy on strangers.

"Come on, Singer! He's a hunter," Devon insisted. He paused before he tacked on, "Thought you old guys had a code or something."

Though he was moved by the younger hunter's words, it wasn't enough to subject Dean and Sam to unwanted guests. Bobby groused back, "Code's dead."

"What's that saying about not turning away strangers 'cause you might be entertaining angels and you don't know it," Devon mockingly parried back.

"Tell me about it.." Bobby grumbled under his breath, disgruntled, but he was rolling himself out from behind the desk, heading for the door.

"Come on, Bobby! The guy's bleeding out! If it were one of your precious Winchesters, you would want other hunters to help them!" The urgency in the young hunter's tone as much as the cringe-worthy example made up Bobby's mind.

Crossing into the kitchen, he called out, giving in with ill grace, "Alright. Don't start recapping Lassie episodes…" Swinging open the door, he saw the young hunter standing in his doorway, couldn't place the expression the man wore before Devon turned back to the jeep parked by the house.

"Bring 'em in boys," Devon ordered and then he stepped by Bobby, eyes sweeping the kitchen, smirking at the line of phones on the wall, each phone marked with tape indicating which branch of law enforcement the older hunter was supposed to be impersonating. He knew it was all for the Winchesters, like most of what Bobby did lately, for the past four or five years. '_And look where that's gotten the old fool_,' he scoffed.

Swinging his wheelchair around, Bobby tracked Devon's motions, felt his gut tighten at the man's smirk, felt shame coil in him when the _kid_ pointedly looked down at him like he was something to be pitied, something pathetic and weak. He didn't turn around when he heard the other men shuffle through the door, burdened with their injured comrade. "You can put him on the couch in the living room," he directed, didn't shy away from the look Devon was giving him, wouldn't give the punk the satisfaction.

Devon's smile was malicious. "No need to put you out more than we already are. Put him on the floor," he ordered without breaking eye contact with the handicapped hunter.

The cold instructions and the look in Devon's eyes made warning bells go off in Bobby's head. Told him that he was missing something. Vital. Looking into the living room, he saw the two unfamiliar men exchange a quick look over the blanket covered body they toted between them. Then they simply dropped their burden. He cursed as the body impacted with a thud against his living room's hard wood floor, stilled as a hand limply fall out from under the blanket, came to rest palm side down on the floor.

Bobby realized with cold dread that he had seen the watch on the wrist before, often, that he recognized the print of the shirt sleeve on the unmoving arm. "Dean," he huskily deduced even as he hurriedly rolled his chair forward, his fatherly fear overriding every common sense rule of hunting: like not turning your back on your foes, that when danger was near, you grabbed whatever weapon was at hand and you never ever let your emotions take over.

Quickly coming up behind Bobby, Devon grabbed the one wheel of the wheelchair and draped his other arm over Bobby's chest, halting the handicapped man's progress. Crouching down he hissed in Bobby's ear, "He's alive…for now." Nodding to one of the other men, he watched as the blanket was pulled off of Dean Winchester's inert but breathing figure. He could feel Bobby's chest expand in relief under his arm. "So where's Sam?"

Unable to raise his eyes from Dean's slack features, Bobby contemptuously answered, "Not here. You're behind on the news, kid. Him and Dean parted ways months ago."

Devon patted Bobby's cheek condescendingly. "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. You never did think I was very smart, did you?"

"Never thought you were this _stupid_," Bobby spit out, turning his head to face the younger man, his threat loud and clear.

"I'm smart enough to get the drop on your beloved Dean. I'm smart enough to get _asked_ into your house, and," Devon leaned closer to Bobby, whispered, "I'm smart enough to know that Sam and Dean are a package deal. That where one is, the other's there, lurking in the shadows. That if you go after one brother, you better have the guts to take on the other one too."

Patting down Bobby and checking the wheelchair, Devon divested the older hunter of a gun that was tucked up under his chair. Standing up, he walked around Bobby, came to a stop in front of the older hunter, purposefully blocking Bobby's view of the unconscious Winchester. He waved the confiscated weapon at Bobby. "You always were a wily one, Singer."

"I don't need weapons to finish you off, Devon," Bobby lethally promised, but his heart was pounding in his chest, not for his own life but in growing worry at Dean's vulnerability, at the thought that Sam might walk into this trap, too.

Devon laughed at the threat, as if it were coming from a child. "Maybe you're still in a state of denial. You're paralyzed, old man. I can do anything I want and you can't stop me." Turning around, he casually walked to Dean's side. Called out loudly, "Sam, come out now unarmed if you want your brother to stay breathing," his voice echoing through the house. Then he sent a powerhouse kick into Dean's side, hard enough to role the unconscious man unto his side and illicit a groan of pain from him.

Bobby spat out a curse and rolled forward, knew that he was angry enough to crawl out of the chair to get to Devon, to stop his abuse of Dean. Sam's voice stopped his attack.

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TBC

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Thanks for reading!

I know that while Dean's taking a physical beating in this story, Sam's taking an emotional beating but I feel like there were conversations/emotions that got shuffled under the carpet. And like it or not, some hurts don't just go away without being confronted and talked about. And of course, with the Winchesters, things always slap them in the face again: like Sam getting re-addicted, reusing his powers and Dean's trust issues and guilt. And since I'm a sadistic fanfic writer, I'm using their pain for my enjoyment. Hope you find some enjoyment in it too…hate to see them suffer just for my sake.

Have a great evening!

Cheryl W.


	3. Chapter 3

Honoring the Dead

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.

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Chapter 3

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Sam had fled up the stairs, desperate to get away from Bobby, from the older man's words. But turning the corner in the upstairs hallway, he had to stop, had to raise a hand to the wall to steady himself, was drained by the trip up the stairs as much as by the emotions coursing through him.

He didn't blame Dean for taking Bobby up on his offer to leave him behind, if only for an hour or so. Wasn't angry that Dean couldn't meet his eyes, that he didn't want to be touched by him. Realized that there was a real possibility that his threat to Bobby was hollow, that Dean wouldn't agree to leave with him, that his brother was done backing his plays, especially after everything.._everyone _such devotion had already cost him. He worried that he no longer had that kind of pull with Dean, that his little brother status didn't mean much stacked up against the tally of his betrayals.

When he had heard the knock on the door, he stilled, felt his heart rate speed up. Because their life? It was never about friends dropping in for a BBQ.

"Who is it?" Hearing Bobby's belligerent greeting eased something in Sam, made him smile faintly.

"It's Devon." Sam pictured a face to go along with the name and voice, a hunter younger than he was, probably twenty three, a kid Dean and he had met a year or so ago. Dean had shown an open disdain for him, and Sam, trusting his brother's instincts, had adopted that same regard for the hunter. It was funny to him, to think the kid was the same age he had been when he and Dean re-partnered up. '_That seems so young now..and so long ago_.'

"I'm busy, kid. Call Rufus or hit a library yourself for a change," came Bobby's retort and that made Sam chuckle softly. Bobby might call them idgits but he never turned them down when they needed his help.

"Got someone injured." That had Sam pushing off the wall, standing up, nerves on alert, wondering if trouble had followed these hunters to their door.

"Hospital's ten miles due south on route 87."

"Come on Singer! He's a hunter." Pause. "Thought you old guys had a code or something."

"Code's dead." Sam was shocked by Bobby's cold response, surprised because he knew it wasn't dead, that Bobby believed in helping other hunters, in hunters sticking together, watching each other's backs. Guiltily, he recognized that Bobby was forsaking the code for them, to protect them, to protect him in his weakened, pathetic state. He contemplated going down the stairs, telling Bobby that it was OK to let Devon in, that he didn't have to abandon his code for him.

"What's that saying about not turning away strangers 'cause you might be entertaining angels and you don't know it?" '_You don't know the half of it_,' Sam thought, shaking his head, thinking of their own private angel. Remembering all the times Cas had saved them, gratitude washed over him. Then there was the most recent turn of events. Cas had disappeared before he had gotten a chance to thank him for staying around while he was detoxing, not just for his sake but for Dean's. For being there so that Dean wasn't alone in his vigil outside the panic room door, so that it wasn't just Bobby trying to get his brother to eat, to sleep, to take care of himself, regardless that both man and angel had failed in those endeavors.

If anyone knew how stubborn his brother was, it was Sam. Suddenly he missed Dean, fiercely, like he had been painfully alone in the panic room.

"Come on Bobby! The guy's bleeding out! If it were one of your precious Winchesters, you would want other hunters to help them!" Hearing his last name coupled with Devon's unveiled scorn for Bobby's love for them, Sam stood ramrod straight, hated that Devon was using the older hunter's affection for them to get in the door. With an escalating sense of danger, he was about to call out a warning to Bobby, to go grab one of the older hunter's stashed weapons when he heard Bobby's reply. "Alright. Don't start recapping Lassie episodes…"

"Bring 'em in boys," Devon beckoned and Sam could hear the single footfalls in the kitchen. Wondering if he was overreacting, he held his position, ears straining to hear the conversation below.

"You can put him on the couch in the living room," Bobby accommodated and Sam stilled even more, knew that the men were close enough to hear the hallway floor boards squeak if he even shifted his weight.

"No need to put you out more than we already are. Put him on the floor." The order was cold, in direct contrast to the urgency and concern that the hunter had used before. Then there was a thud that made Sam swallow sickly because he knew that sound too intimately. It was the almost unmistakable sound of a body being dumped callously onto a hard floor.

Even before Bobby spoke, Sam knew in his heart the truth. Bobby's husky "Dean," was a bleak, painful confirmation. Torn between rushing the stairs to get to his brother and slipping down the hallway to find a weapon, he found he couldn't do either action. Couldn't move. Couldn't force himself to even draw in a breath. Not without knowing if Dean was alive.

As if to torment him further, he heard the murmur of words but they were spoken too softly for his ears to decipher. A few seconds later, "So where's Sam?" came to him clearly and unexpectedly. '_Preparing to kill you with my bare hands,_' Sam vowed, hands tightening into fists, too frantic with worry to feel ashamed that he was cursing the fact there was not enough remnants of his power left to enable him to kill with little more than a thought.

"Not here. You're behind on the news, kid. Him and Dean parted ways months ago." Though Bobby's deflection was delivered in a voice raging with anger, threaded with concern, there was no grief in the older man's tone. '_Dean's alive_,' Sam rationalized, repeated it to himself like a Latin mantra to keep away evil. '_Dean's alive. Dean's alive. Dean's not dead.'_ Forcing a breath into his tight lungs, he ached to bound down the stairs, to confirm his belief. To get proof that Bobby's statement wasn't true, that he and Dean hadn't parted ways, not again, not everlastingly. He had survived Dean's death before but he knew he wouldn't choose that path again, not even to honor Dean's wishes. If Dean were gone….

"Bobby, Bobby, Bobby. You never did think I was very smart, did you?"

"Never thought you were this _stupid._"

"I'm smart enough to get the drop on your beloved Dean. I'm smart enough to get _asked_ into your house, and…" The rest Sam couldn't hear. He fought the urge to step closer to the landing, to not miss what was happening below. But he remained immobile, knew that Bobby was trying to buy him time, was counting on him to do something, even sans his powers.

Then Devon raised his voice, allowing him back into the scene below. "You always were a wily one, Singer."

"I don't need weapons to finish you off, Devon," Bobby was pissed, that was clear. '_Sorry, Bobby, if he's hurt Dean, there won't be anything left of Devon after I'm done with him.'_

"Maybe you're still in a state of denial. You're paralyzed, old man. I can do anything I want and you can't stop me." At Devon's taunt to the disabled man and his open threat, more hatred and dread blossomed in Sam. He almost jumped when Devon's voice was raised loud enough to ring throughout the house.

"Sam, come out now unarmed if you want your brother to stay breathing." Sam nearly folded in relief, let his shoulder rest against the wall as Devon's ultimatum repeated in his head. It was verification that Dean was breathing, that he was alive. Anything else faded in comparison. Or so he thought. Then he heard the reverberation of flesh being struck and his brother's recognizable groan of pain.

Instantly, Sam abandoned the idea of getting a weapon, of coming up with a sneak attack, of doing anything…_anything_ that would put Dean in further jeopardy. "Stop! I'm coming down!" he shouted. Hands raised, he stepped onto the stair's landing and got his first glimpse of the scene below, of Dean sprawled unmoving on the floor. And, no matter how much time had passed since Dean had come back to him from hell, he still relived Dean's death in instances like this one: Carrying Dean's lifeless, blood soaked body to the Impala, settling Dean in that wooden box, covering that wooden casket with dirt. It felt like he would forever be locked in the loop of fear. That no matter what he did, Gabriel's words would be true again: No matter what you do, you can't save your brother.

Pain, fear, weakness, lack of control, loss of self: it all came back in a rush. Every emotion that had consumed him after Dean had died, when Dean had left him alone…when Ruby's company was both comfort and punishment, when her teachings offered up both condemnation and absolution. He had vowed that he wouldn't feel those things again, would never hurt like that, ever again. Had thought that cutting himself off from Dean, going with Ruby, telling himself that he was hunting Lilith without Dean for Dean's own protection, that it would keep Dean at a distance, would ensure that if his brother left him again, he would survive this time…soul in tact.

But it had been a lie, more poorly fabricated than any of Ruby's. Their separation a few months ago had undeniably shown him just how much he had fooled himself. And moments like this? With Dean clearly _hurt_. It proved that point ten fold.

Coming down the stairs, eyes on his brother, Sam knew that the choices he had made lately, no matter how wrong they had been, they were never about not loving Dean enough. Instead they had been about loving his brother too much. His mother's refusal to leave their father before they had children? He understood that depth of love. His mother's refusal to leave John and raise Dean on her own? He knew what prompted that too: a desire for her family to be complete, to not be torn apart, the desire to cling to some kind of normalcy, to be happy…even if it wasn't meant to last.

Tearing his eyes from his brother's still but breathing form, Sam shifted his incensed gaze to Devon. He stood still as one of the other men patted him down, checking him for weapons. "I did what you asked. Now step away from my brother."

Raising his own hands, Devon offered up an accommodating smile. He took a step back from Dean then another, as if Sam was the one calling the shots.

Sam saw the change in Devon's eyes a moment before he understood the man's intentions. Yelling "NO!" he tried to intervene, but, as weak as he was, the two other men blocked him with pathetic ease. He was forced to watch helplessly as Devon took a few running steps before unleashing a kick into Dean's kidneys. Dean arched under the assault and gave a cry of agony, his hand instinctively searching for some leverage against the agony.

"I will kill you!" Sam screamed at Devon, straining against the hold the two men had on him. Adrenaline, fear and rage gave him the strength to lock his legs, to not crumble in exhaustion. "What did Dean ever do to you?!"

Causally stepping over the limp body by his boot, Devon made his way to Sam. "To me personally? Nothing," he supplied with a careless shrug of his shoulders.

"Then why do this? Why are you _here_?" Sam demanded, knew that Devon liked a good fight, relished a challenging hunt. That he had a reputation of letting his prey make a run for it, so he could prolong the chase. But Devon wasn't usually into torture.

"Because Bobby might have forsaken the hunter's code for you two but I haven't," Devon cryptically explained. "Handcuff all three of them," he blandly ordered, didn't stick around to see if his orders were carried out. Instead, he walked away, disinterested, headed to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. "You got anything to eat? I'm starving."

Even as Sam was manhandled into a chair and his hands were handcuffed behind him, his eyes met Bobby's, read the older man's vow as if he had spoken aloud. '_We're getting out of this, son. All of us._'

But Sam knew about such vows, such hope. Had wanted to vow the same thing when Jo went down under the hell hound's attack, had wanted to drag Ellen out of that hardware store, had wanted Dean to look at him and promise what he had before. 'Nothing bad is going to happen to you as long as I'm around.' But something bad had happened. Dean had done the worst thing to him that he could, he had died on him. After that, believing in happily ever after, the good guys always winning? Those fairy tales were over for him.

His new vow was without the rose colored shading. He would not lose his brother again. Would use every single thing at his disposal, evil or not, to keep that vow. No matter the consequences. Would again willingly destroy himself, condemn himself to keep Dean safe. After all, Dean had condemned his soul for him, made himself defenseless against Alistair's torture, unknowingly set himself up to break the first seal. Him condemning his own soul to save Dean this time? It had always seemed an uneven reciprocation. Certainly felt like a case of too little, too late.

So if he had to kill all these hunters to save Dean and Bobby, Sam would do that. If he needed to call on whatever powers that might still be lurking in him, he would do that too. The only thing that scared him was the thought that he might save Dean only to have his brother hate him, leave him.

He remembered young John Winchester's condemnation for a father that taught his sons how to hunt. But he clearly understood now what he hadn't as a child, as John's son. That his father had done the only thing he could to save his children, to protect them. He had made sure they could protect themselves, that they knew how to survive, anything. He had chosen to love his sons fiercely enough to incite their hatred.

Sam would make that same choice too. Would endure Dean's hatred and anything else Dean leveled at him…just as long as Dean was alive. Just as long as history didn't repeat itself, as long as he didn't lose his brother to death again.

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Dean woke to the low thread of voices and the too familiar ache of having had his head bashed in. He lay still, trying to gauge the situation, to not let his captors know he was conscious. He could feel the hard surface under his cheek and along his body. Not a bed, probably a floor. Not surprising that his wrists were bound. He didn't even have to move to know there were some injured areas, like his head, which wasn't anything new. It had ached since one of Famine's goons had made him do a header into a door. Then there was his back and ribs, simply inhaling and exhaling caused pain to spike. So yeah, he could move but it wasn't going to be scary fast or anything. He had worked with far less.

Next he strained his hearing even as he breathed in, tried to pick up a smell that would help him recognize where he was. He bit his lip as the pain hit him at the inhale, fought to not groan or cringe, struggled to put his focus on what he had learned. Devon's voice he recognized but he couldn't make out the words. The man was too far away. And as for a smell? There was grease, gasoline and a tinge of _Daffodils_? Daffodils like Bobby had used in his spell the previous night.

He was at Bobby's house.

The knowledge was both a point of relief and panic. He was on familiar ground but it also meant that Bobby and Sam had been dragged into whatever crap storm was brewing. And he didn't doubt it was going to be a destructive storm because, what Devon had said about judgment? It didn't bode well. Nor did Devon's cold calculation in quickly setting up a sniper to take a shot at him. That the young hunter had dropped off a fourth man before he turned around, crested the hill, and approached the Impala, it screamed premeditation, indicated a purpose, a plan.

Dean knew that it should have been reassuring that he was alive, that the rifle shot wasn't meant to be a headshot. But it wasn't because the way his head felt…a bullet in it couldn't have made it hurt much worse.

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His brother being his sole focus, not just in that moment but practically of his life, Sam instantly sensed the change in Dean's breathing, the minuscule tightening in his brother's frame. Wished he could offer up a whisper, but didn't want to alert their captors of Dean's wakefulness. Whatever Devon had in mind, it wasn't anything good. Dean knocked out and dumped on the floor and him and Bobby tied up, it didn't take a genius to figure that out.

Desperately, he wanted to connect with Dean, to reassure himself that Dean was alright as much as to collaborate on some kind of plan. Reaching out with his foot, he tapped his brother's ankle, hoped Dean was with it enough to figure out the Morris code: 'S.t.a.y. S.t.i.l.l. 3. m.e.n."

Dean nearly jerked at the contact, would have had his life not been all about having nerves of steel. After the initial surprise, it registered: the shoe tapping against his ankle…Morris Code. '_Sam_' he realized, almost allowed himself to slip back under the void at the relief. Maybe would have it Sam's tapping didn't require his full attention. . '_T.i.e.d_.' And Dean knew Sam wasn't talking about their prank war tallies. By the angle of Sam's foot, he calculated Sam's position in the room, a chair a few feet to the left of his feet. Was wondering Bobby's status when the tapping continued. '_B. t.o.o_.' Dean silently cursed. Yeah they were screwed, but anger was rising to the surface. Fury that Devon thought he could play home invasion, could tie up Sam, who was weak as a newborn kitten right then and Bobby, who had no feeling in his legs. It ranked up there with drowning puppies in Dean's mind and he wasn't going to stand for it. Well, wouldn't after he rested for a moment, gathered his strength, told his headache to keep it down and his ribs to suck it up.

Watching the interaction between the brothers, Bobby knew he shouldn't have been surprised that Sam would know the instant that his brother was awake, that the two of them would find a way to communicate. Every time he thought he had the brothers figured out, knew just how in tune or out of tune they were with each other, they went and made his information obsolete.

While their unwelcome guests were scavenging in the kitchen, Bobby whispered, his eyes on Sam but his words for both brothers, "Devon's friends, they ain't hunters. My guess is they're hired help." Knew that the way the men carried themselves, their disinterest in Devon's rantings. And the information, it mattered. Was more about predicting the men's actions than any notion of loyalty among hunters.

"Mercenaries?" Sam quietly responded, thinking of soldiers dressed in camouflage and toting M16s in a foreign land.

"More like thugs for hire," Bobby undertoned, his contempt sharp, was surprised when Sam's head snapped down to Dean as if the other man had spoken aloud.

"There's another one of them," Sam announced with certainty, eyes rising from his brother's seemingly immobile form to Bobby. "He's probably outside, on guard."

Bobby almost asked if he were tapping into his physic thing again when he noticed that Sam was shifting his foot slightly tighter against Dean's foot, realized that somehow Dean had told Sam that their odds just got worse. "Not like we were going to have much luck with the odds being even."

"What does he want Bobby?" Sam growled, hated that Dean was getting the crap beat out of him and he didn't even know why yet. Didn't know what he could say or do to stop Devon from hurting Dean further. Only knew that Devon's anger was focused on his brother.

"Far as I can piece together, he thinks we've broken some code between hunters," Bobby hissed, wondering what a sadist kid like Devon knew about codes of conduct, of what bound hunters together. From what he could tell, the kid didn't know a thing about honor or loyalty.

Before Sam could ask Bobby what code Devon thought they had broken, that _Dean_ had broken, Devon's thug buddies ambled back into the room. One approached Dean's inert form and Sam tensed, wished Dean wasn't so vulnerable, lying on the floor like he was.

The first man stepped over Dean and crouched down behind his back. Roughly he gripped Dean's bound arms and started dragging the oldest Winchester to his feet, not caring if he were unconscious or not.

Dean took the opportunity that presented itself. Snapping his head back, he felt it impact with a nose, heard the man's roar of pain and the hands wrapped around his forearms drop away. Released from one thug's grip, he saw the second thug go on the offensive, charge for him. He let him get just close enough to make the kick he sent into the man's chest very effective.

Freed of both hired thugs, Dean could see Devon was abandoning his sandwich in the kitchen, was stalking his way. Unwilling to go mano y mano with Devon with his hands handcuffed behind his back, Dean jumped off the ground, did it high enough that he could slid his bound hands under his feet. Landing, he smiled at Devon as his bound hands were now in front of him. It wasn't a perfect situation but he felt it was at least 75% improved.

Lazily walking into the room, Devon raised his gun, aimed it at Dean's chest, his eyes lancing into the oldest Winchester's heated green glare. Then he smiled cockily. Sliding the magazine free of the gun, he carelessly tossed both gun and clip on the table beside him. "Like I said, you never back down from a fight, no matter how bad the odds. Which suits me just fine," he derisively admitted, before he took a swing at Dean.

With his hands bound together, Dean went on the defensive first, raised his arms and blocked Devon's right cross. Taking the opportunity to strike, he brought his knee up into Devon's gut. When the younger man bowed under the assault, Dean clasped his hands together and slammed them down across his opponent's back, sending Devon to the floor.

But whatever victory Dean had achieved was short-lived as he was grabbed by the elbows and yanked backwards. His back and head impacted brutally with the living room wall and then thug number one was putting his fist through his gut. Air knocked out of him, Dean leaned over, was kept upright by the thugs on either side of him.

Slowly, unflappably, Devon climbed to his feet, gave the impression that he was enjoying himself, that taking a shot from Dean, even going down to the ground, it was Ok. Wouldn't mean much in the end. He pulled something from his pocket but kept it concealed in the palm of his hand as he approached Dean.

"Devon, what do you want?!" Sam demanded angrily, had pulled uselessly at his handcuffs that bound him to the chair, had wished that some of his powers remained to help him get free. It was a bittersweet realization to know that the blood's effects were completely gone, that they were out of his system, were no longer there for him to call upon. Even to protect his brother.

Devon smiled at Sam but gave no answer, stepped closer to Dean, who had regained his breath and was looking at him with hatred and the promise of a beat down. "Three against one, doesn't seem fair, does it?" he taunted. He wasn't afraid of Dean Winchester, no matter the older hunter's reputation.

"You know it's the only way you got a chance against me," Dean snarled, standing taller as he faced Devon. He relished the idea of his fist knocking loose the kid's perfect white teeth.

But not being afraid of Dean Winchester was a world's difference than underestimating him. "Oh, I know. I've heard the stories. I've seen you in action a time or two. But this really isn't about _your_ ability to survive, to win." He enjoyed Dean's scowl of confusion. "This experiment is about Pamela." He saw the minuscule break in Winchester's armor at the name of the deceased physic. Coming closer, he lowly spat, "This is about her being _blind_, being _unarmed_ and forced to fight for her _life _against astronger, armed opponent." He saw Dean stiffen at the picture he painted.

Bending down, Devon pulled a knife from his boot, made sure Winchester saw it nice and close up. He was slightly disappointed that no fear flared in Dean's eyes, that instead a cold glare of cocky challenge was the other hunter's response. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Dean wouldn't guess what was coming next.

"I pulled Pamela into our fight, not Dean!" Bobby confessed heatedly. "You want to punish someone for her death, her blindness, that's on me."

"Bobby, shut up!" Dean barked, eyes never leaving Devon's. "I'm the reason she was blinded. And I'm the one that dragged her into that town where she got killed," he affirmed, no hesitation in his words but a flickering of guilt in his gaze.

"We never wanted to get her hurt…or killed," Sam insisted huskily, his own guilt unhidden, remembered being too late to save her, helplessly watching her take her labored last breathes. Would forever recall her last words to him…words he didn't heed and should have. Oh, how he should have listened to her.

Devon shook his head, eyes having never left Dean's. "That's par for the course with you Winchesters, isn't it. Oops, we got someone else killed by our screw ups. And. You. Never. Know. How. It. Feels. To. Be. That. Person," he gritted out. "Well now you will." Then he raised his left hand, revealed a small canister, and sprayed a stream of liquid into both of Dean's eyes.

Dean cried out in surprised agony, clamped his eyes shut tightly but the action didn't lessen the pain. It felt like acid had just been splashed into his eyes. Only the two men's grip on his arms kept him off the floor.

"What did you do!?!" Sam screamed, trying to get free, to go to his brother. Watched in horror as Dean wilted under the onslaught of agony. Heart thudding in his chest, he prayed that Devon hadn't permanently blinded his brother.

"You sadistic coward!" Bobby hurled the words as if they were weapons, wanted to attack the young hunter with lethal intent.

Nodding to his hired companions to release their grip on their captive, Devon enjoyed the sight of the mighty Dean Winchester nearly falling to his knees. He smiled as Dean scrubbed at his eyes in vain, breath ragged with pain. He waited patiently as each of his men took up their position beside their other captives, there to ensure that neither Sam nor Bobby found a way to interfere in his experiment.

He wanted Dean to be left very much alone in the dark.

With the ease of a man used to handling knives with deadly purpose, Devon arced the knife up. Even as he sent its precision sharp blade slicing through Dean's coat sleeve, shirt and the flesh underneath as easily as if it were paper, he tauntingly whispered, "Polo." His words satisfyingly overlapping Dean's stunned hiss of pain.

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TBC

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Well that's where I leave our heroes. Thanks for reading and for the kind reviews on the last chapter!!

And when I thought about wishing everyone a Happy Easter, this verse came to me:

"O Lord, You have searched me and You know me." – Psalms 139:1. It's strange that He knows us better than anyone ever will…and loves us anyways, loved us enough to die on the cross for us. Amazing!

Have a Happy Easter everyone!

Cheryl W.


	4. Chapter 4

Honoring the Dead

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.

Author's Note: In light of the new episodes airing, this story now goes into the AU category.

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Chapter 4

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Unable to open his burning eyes, Dean thrust his arms out to defend himself against the sharp blade of Devon's knife but his grasp only met air. Blindly staggering left, his back against the wall, he swung his arms left to right, hoping to block the next attack when it came. His brother's voice was like a beacon in the callous void he was encased in.

"9 o'clock!" Sam shouted, voice raised in panic as Devon stepped toward Dean, knife at the ready.

With absolute trust, Dean reacted to Sam's warning.

Ducking, Dean felt a whoosh of air going over his head as Devon's assault missed its intended target. Taking advantage of his knowledge of his opponent's location, Dean kicked out, felt the satisfying impact of his foot against flesh and bone. Using the distance he had garnered, he stumbled to the left again. He tried to envision the layout of the room in his head, to get close enough to the fireplace to grab the poker. He wouldn't even be picky, would take the small shovel or the broom, use any of it to ward off Devon's next advance.

Stepping back, hand rubbing his ribs where Dean's foot had caught him, Devon turned to Sam, whose eyes were tracking his brother's pathetic progress across the room. "Teach Sam to keep his mouth shut," he ordered, waited until his man punched Sam in the gut before he looked back to see how far his prey had crawled. Stalking forward, he fleetingly looked to the man beside Bobby, nodded in approval as the man in the wheelchair was gagged, like Sam would be very shortly.

Hearing Sam's pained whoosh of air, Dean gritted his teeth but didn't offer up a threat to Devon and his goons, knew that he needed to see to his own survival right then and there. That he couldn't protect Sam and Bobby, save them, if he was dead. '_I won't do them much good if I'm blind either. That is if my performance now is any indication. Crap, Pamela, I'm sorry I sentenced you to this.'_

Shaking off his dismal thoughts, forcing himself to stay in the moment, Dean sightlessly slid along the wall until he felt the brick corner of the fireplace dig into his back. Suddenly, his sixth sense screamed that danger was close. Defensively raising his hands, he growled as pain streaked across his left hip as Devon's knife put a rip in his jeans, ensured that blood would stain the denim. But more disheartening than the new pain was the knowledge that Devon was now on his left, had positioned himself between him and the makeshift weapons he had been hoping to get his hands on.

Feet tripping over each other in the darkness his world had fallen to, Dean retreated back the way he had come, let the wall guide him. Was almost proud of his progress when his shoulder came up against wood, knew that he had come up against the stupid wooden secretary that Bobby treasured.

He was cornered.

Not one to give up a battle, Dean re-strategized, optimistically realized that at least he had only one front to guard now. If Devon came at him, he would have to do it straight on. '_Come on, Devon. Make your move. Get close enough for me to get a hold on you_,' he silently goaded, taking the moment to rub at his eyes, wishing that the pain would lessen even if he couldn't open his eyes, was forced to fight in the void. But apparently none of his requests were being jotted down in heaven. Do not pass go, do not collect one hundred dollars. Go directly to jail. '_Or in my case, it's probably go directly back to hell_.'

Choking on the painfully restrictive gag and straining at his handcuffs, Sam was forced to helplessly watch the unfair battle in silence. Furiously vowed to show Devon just how deadly a knife could be the second that he had the opportunity.

Eyes clamped shut, agony emanating from his eyes, cornered and up against an armed, sighted opponent, Dean struggled to even out his breathing, to strain his ears to pick out the click of Devon's boots on Bobby's hardwood floor. Determined to gauge the distance between he and Devon by the echo of the footfalls, he forced himself to hold his position until the last moment, until he knew Devon was within his personal space perimeter, until Devon's next strike was imminent.

Dropping down into a crouch, Dean swept his leg out, felt it make contact with Devon's legs. Then they were a tangle of legs as the younger hunter fell, nearly broke Dean's leg as he landed on it, hard. Dean kicked out with his other foot, delivered another blow to his opponent.

Knowing that he had to take advantage of Devon's weakness, Dean dove toward Devon. Blindly reaching forward, he successfully clamped a hand around Devon's leg. Then, using Devon's leg as a guide, he began to climb up the man's torso, determined to latch unto Devon's knife welding hand. A moment later, he found just where Devon's hand was.

A shallow cut was made across Dean's back, causing him to arch his back in pain. Reaching out, Dean found Devon's elbow, slammed it into the ground and hauled himself on top of Devon, pinning the other man to the ground, arresting the younger hunter's right hand.

But unlike Dean, Devon's hands were not bound together. Securing one of his hands? It simply meant that the other one was free to inflict whatever damage it could. Devon didn't miss that advantage. He sent a right cross into Dean's jaw.

Sam had wanted to cheer as Dean lashed out, knocked Devon off his feet and pinned the younger hunter to the ground. But the victory turned to ash in his mouth as he watched Devon calmly reach over and take the knife from his pinned hand. Around the gag, he tried to yell a warning to Dean but it only came out as a panicked moan of sound. When Devon completed the transfer, tightly gripped the knife in his free hand, Sam felt sick. Even around the gag his muffled shout of "No!" echoed through the air as Devon sliced the knife across Dean's stomach.

White hot agony erupted in Dean. Told him that close quarter battles when he was blind – they sucked. Clasping his hands together, he swung them at where he estimated Devon's fat head would be, felt his knuckles break open as his blow landed on a strong jawline. With the hunter momentarily dazed, Dean pushed off Devon and clumsily climbed to his feet. Instinctively his hand found the newest source of pain, was coated with a warm liquid Dean didn't need sight to recognize. Loosing his balance, he tripped backward to come up against the wall again. Putting his hands to the left, he felt along the wall, hurried in the void to get to the poker, to finish this before Devon finished him.

Devon's voice trailed behind him, baited him. "It wasn't enough for you to blind Pamela. You had to drag her into a _hunt, _had to get her_ killed._ You left her alone and vulnerable. You might as well have stabbed her yourself Dean. The sad part is…she trusted you. Course that's what you Winchesters count on: people trusting you, people believing your lies about fighting the good fight."

Dean's shoulders hunched under the verbal assault but he didn't even try to defend himself. Couldn't because, what Devon said? It was nothing short of the truth. The people who had trusted him? They were dead, save Bobby. And Bobby was sentenced to a wheelchair because of him. Jo and Ellen had actually believed in them, had died thinking that he and Sam had a shot at winning the fight. He hoped, where ever they were, that they didn't know what a waste their sacrifice had been. How badly he had let them down.

Sam and Bobby surviving, that was the only reason he kept moving, didn't let Devon finish him off. It was about at least _trying,_ with everything he had, to protect the people that he loved. No matter his past failures.

Devon leaned against the wall, rubbed his thumb across the bloody streak that Dean's hand had left on the faded wallpaper, coldly watched Dean's pathetic, doomed mission. "The fire place tools…I moved them," he smugly announced, he smiled with Dean halted, defeat bowing his shoulders. He rose his eyebrows in a happy dance as he looked to Bobby, saw the old hunter's glower sear into him at his lie.

His blood slicked, bound hands coiled around the brick edge of the fireplace, Dean stopped, let defeat sag his shoulders. Then he dove forward, dropped to his knees while he reached forward. Though his hands knocked over the fireplace tool stand, he managed to grip the poker, the one Devon said was no longer there. Rolling over onto his back, he swung the weapon, willing to decapitate Devon if it came down to that.

The poker missed Devon's skull by mere inches, would have struck home if the man beside Sam hadn't dodged forward, grabbed a handful of the young hunter's shirt and yanked him backwards. For the first time the thug spoke. "He's out of your league, kid. The only reason I didn't let him finish you off is you owe us the rest of our fee."

With his swing harmlessly colliding with the fireplace and the deep baritone words of the stranger, Dean knew his slim window of opportunity of taking out Devon was officially and irrevocably closed. Dropping the poker with defeat, he sank back onto the floor, let his head thunk onto the hardwood as he raised his hands to his teary, painfully burning, useless eyes. Felt desolation wash over him. He had taken his shot and lost. Story of his life.

"Get 'em in a chair," Devon gruffly ordered, yanking free of his hired man's hold and heading back to the kitchen, to the discarded sandwich. He didn't want to rush things anyway, had time to waste after all, had to wait until Grant arrived to finish things. Then Winchester would pay, they would all pay.

Dean didn't even offer up a token struggle when he was hauled off the floor, pushed a few steps and shoved into a chair. Didn't take advantage of the situation when his handcuffs were undone only to be re-clicked in place behind him, binding him to the chair. If nothing else, he had come to be an expert at the tangible feel of hopelessness.

A wordless exchange passed between Devon's hired help and they seemed to come to a decision between them. A moment later, they both removed the gags from Bobby and Sam and retreated to the kitchen. They didn't know the details of what Devon's beef was with these men and they didn't want to. They got paid to do a job, not to have a conscience.

Freed of his gag, Sam, eyes having never strayed from his brother, anxiously asked, "Dean, how bad is the cut?"

"Which one?" Dean quipped, trying to rub his eyes with his shoulders in a vain attempt to ease the burning agony.

But it was Bobby who protested Dean's deflection, "Oh, I don't know. The one you're bleeding out from." Anger, frustration and fear were coiled together in his rough words.

"Oooohhh that one…" Dean drawled out sarcastically, dropping his chin to his chest and squeezing his eyes closed tighter, felt more stinging tears slip down his face.

"Dean," Sam pleadingly called out his brother's name, was too consumed with fear and adrenaline to pretend he was unaffected by Dean's gladiator bout and fresh wounds.

Sam's voice told Dean everything he needed to know. Sam was worried for him, was over there freaking out – not because he was disappointed that he had lost the round with Devon but because Sam cared about him. "I'll live," he reassured, put as much strength into the statement as he could even though he didn't bother to lift his head. It wasn't like he could look Sam in the eyes right now anyway.

Dean's confident reply, it helped even as Sam knew that it didn't mean his brother wasn't seriously hurt, that Dean wasn't in a fair amount of pain. "Your eyes?" he quietly asked, chest so tight that breathing was near impossible until Dean made his reply.

"Hurts like a mother but I'm guessing not as bad as having your eyes burned out like Pamela," Dean gruffly reported, his weight of guilt like a signed confession.

Sam flinched at the comparison, hated that Dean was in pain, both physical and emotional, that he didn't know if Dean would see again or not. Unable to offer hope, he offered absolution to his brother. "Dean, we didn't know that would happen to Pamela. Cas didn't even _intend_ to hurt her. You know that."

"Yeah, stuff just happens. I feel so much better now that that mystery of the world is solved," Dean sardonically snapped back, knew that Cas was sorry, that they were all sorry. Didn't change a thing, hadn't given Pamela her sight back or kept her alive. Before he could sink into further despair or Sam could try to defend the painful loss of Pamela, he asked, "You and Bobby hurt?"

In unison, Bobby and Sam replied, "No."

"Well who says there's no good news," Dean returned, head still bowed. But Sam's next question had been rattling around in his brain, too.

"How far is Devon going to take this?"

"He said something about everyone gets their judgment," Dean supplied, had never particularly liked the notion of judgment.

Bobby gave a frustration sigh of "Oh great." Because judgment was never calculated right in his book when it was done by psychos who liked to play head games and inflict pain on others.

"I think you're safe, Bobby," Dean observed. Though Devon had insulted Bobby, he seemed to see the other hunter as another victim of the Winchesters' callous hunting ways.

"Yeah, 'cause it's me I'm worried about," Bobby sarcastically threw back, voice low but rough with righteous anger. '_Kid can't see when someone cares for him even when he can see, what did I expect after this blind man's bluff game_.'

"Aww..I'm literally getting teary eyed over here," Dean wise cracked, made a point to raise his head and face where Bobby's voice emanated from, show the man that there were tears running down his face from his tightly closed eyes. Then he lowered his head again, wished that he could get his eyes open, could know if this was all there was in his future, this darkness. Wished his eyes didn't hurt so fiercely, like an ice pick was in them.

Bobby's jaw clenched at the full sight of Dean's pained features, at the tears running down the younger man's face, at the skin around his tightly closed eyes that was red and looked almost to be bubbling up like a burn. He heaped even more curses on Devon's head. Realized that, if Dean wasn't permanently blind, Devon had made sure Dean wasn't going to be able to see for hours, maybe days…if he let Dean live that long.

Not treated to the sight Bobby had been, Sam was encouraged by Dean's smart mouth. At least Dean was fighting back, physically and verbally. He wasn't just throwing in the towel. "Dean, what are we going to do?"

"Plead the 5th Amendment?" Dean quirked, gave a bitter laugh at his own humor.

"Dean I'm serious," Sam pressed, eyes warily tracking to Devon who was on his cellphone, talking too quietly to be heard from where he sat in the living room.

"I don't know," Dean hissed, his frustration coming through. "But keep your mouth shut, Sam. He's gunning for me, obviously. I'll handle him."  
"Handle him?" Sam scoffed with a bitter laugh. "Dean, he stabbed you, blinded you!" Instantly Sam regretted the words, the traitorous acknowledgement that Dean might not see again.

"But he didn't kill me, Sam," Dean pointed out, knew that there was something in that, something that didn't quite fit together in his head.

"Right, because he's just doing this for fun, no harm meant," Sam acidly parried back.

"A plan would be useful about now instead of your bickering," Bobby interrupted in reprimand. Though to be truthful, he wasn't feeling encouraged by Dean's statement anymore than Sam was.

"Ah……pray Cas comes back, unleashes some holy retribution," Dean lightly suggested.

Sam snorted even as the idea appealed to him, a lot. "You mean pray figuratively or literally?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, accepting either philosophy if it would mean Cas would pop in and save the day.

Instead of the angel's entrance into the room, Devon crossed over the threshold again. He ambled to a stop in front of Dean.

Dean didn't bother looking up but taunted, "I've got my second wind if you want to go another round, Devon."

Sam's every nerve sang with tension and he held his breath, knew that one wrong word, one misstep in the game and Devon would take Dean up on his offer or worse. How he loathed being helpless to defend Dean, especially when Dean wasn't able to protest himself. Was one of the reasons he thrived on the power the blood gave him. It had made him feel invincible, that he could do what he hadn't been able to do back in New Harmony: protect Dean, to save him. He should have known that every addiction? It whispered lies into your soul to keep you coming back for more. But now Ruby was dead, the blood had been slowly ebbed out of his system and he was left tied to a chair while a human, a hunter, someone who should be thinking of Dean as a heroic comrade in arms was callously torturing his brother for penance for events that were out of Dean's hands. For deaths that Dean would have prevented with his last breath if he had had the opportunity, even if Sam wouldn't have made the same trade. Jo's life, Ellen's, Pamela's? He would sacrifice them all over again to keep his brother alive. '_If Devon wants to blame anyone, he should blame me.' _

As if feeling Sam's hatred filled gaze on him, Devon turned to the younger of the two Winchesters. "Oh you disapprove of my game," he scoffed. Then he gripped Dean's chin in his cruel fingers' hold and yanked the man's head up, leaned close to inspect the damage to the skin around Dean's eyes. "Hurts, doesn't it?" he breathed, ran a rough thumb over the tender skin.

"Leave him alone," Sam growled, too furious to remain silent as he watched Dean flinch away from the callous touch. "You want to avenge Pamela's death, you're talking to the wrong Winchester." He was using one of Dean's ploys: provoking their antagonist so he would leave his brother alone.

"Sam," Dean lowly protested but Sam continued to ruthlessly bait Devon.

"I'm the one that got there too late. I didn't react in time to save her," Sam admitted, the memory fresh in his mind. Felt victorious when Devon released his brother's chin and stepped back from Dean, sighted his cold fury on him instead.

But Dean wasn't to be ignored. "She didn't want to help us, you know. I practically forced her to come with me."

Devon's eyes swung back to Dean.

Hating the game of pin-pong guilt the Winchesters were playing, Bobby spoke up, aggravation in his tone, "No, you want someone to blame, then that's me. I asked for Pamela's help for Dean. I got her involved in the first place. But she…" his eyes lighted on Dean's bowed figure, flickered over to meet Sam's eyes, "she agreed to help because she wanted to."

"Why are you defending them!" Devon snarled, hand sweeping out to indicate Sam and Dean. "I know Dean screwed up and put you in that chair!" his finger turned to point to Bobby's wheelchair, to the paralyzed man. "You're as much a victim of theirs as Pamela was!"

Devon's observation ripped the air from the room, caused Sam's eyes to dart worriedly to Dean and Dean's posture to stiffen.

Righteous indignation flared in Bobby because Devon, he couldn't have been more wrong. Bobby hated worst that, by the set of Dean's shoulders, the older Winchester believed the lie. "You should sue your source. The person who screwed up was **me!** I got myself possessed. And **I** put myself in this wheelchair 'cause it was a thousand times better than Dean being dead all over again. Of me being _used_ to kill him," he railed, breathing came out sharp, wishing that he had told Dean all that privately, that he had said it before, had told Dean that after he foolishly admitted he wanted to commit suicide rather than live the life of a cripple.

Guilt, gratitude and warmth, it all flowed over Dean at Bobby's words, at the man's forgiveness for his failings. That Bobby loved him, in spite of everything it had cost him.

Instead of Bobby's words swaying Devon, the young hunter lashed out, kicked over a footstool bearing books. "They aren't worth it! Can't you see that, you old fool! They aren't worth losing the use of your legs, they weren't worth Pamela's life or Ellen's. And they sure weren't worth Jo's life!"

At the mention of Jo's name, Sam stiffen, watched Dean's head snap up, knew that, if there was one weapon that could hurt Dean the most, Jo's death was it. '_Don't let him use Jo against you, Dean.'_

Stalking back to Dean, Devon gripped Dean's hair and yanked his head up, lowly hissed in the blinded man's face, "I tried to tell Jo that you weren't who she thought you were. Me?! She would barely look at. But you…you she defended to anyone who dared slander **your** name. You were the son of the man who killed her dad, the hunter who opened up the devil's gate, a guy that a lot of people seemed to die around. I told Jo not to trust you, to never hunt with you again but she.." and Devon's voice broke, revealed for the first time that this, what he was unleashing on Dean, it was personal. That it was more about Jo than it would ever be about Pamela or Ellen. That he had only chosen to revisit Pamela's pain on Dean because it could be recreated, could offer pain for the maximum length of time.

Swallowing, Devon got himself together, spoke again, bitterness resonating in his every word, "She was in love with you, Dean. Would have done anything for you. And she did too, didn't she?" There was no satisfaction in watching Dean Winchester's grimace, in seeing the other man swallow hard. "She died for you, because of you, didn't she?" Releasing his grip on Dean's hair he stepped back, as if the man's presence was a plague. "Go ahead, deny it, defend yourself. Tell me how I got it all wrong," and there was less fury in his tone, was more plead because he didn't want it to be the truth. Wanted Jo's death to mean more than just the survival of Dean Winchester, for her to have thought of herself before the man she had some diluted, hero worship infatuation with.

With his eyes forced closed, with no other sight to distract him, Dean's mind played out the scene in Carthage, Jo turning around when he fell under the hell hound's attack, her coming back to save him, her knocked to the ground, her flesh torn by an invisible beast. And he knew that agony, that helplessness personally. She had been light, fragile in his arms as he carried her to 'safety', as her blood coated his hands…his clothing…his soul. "You're not wrong," he quietly admitted. Because, what Devon was saying, it made sense and he wished it didn't. Jo hadn't saved him merely because he was another hunter, because she was following some code, because he was an important asset in the apocalyptic fight. "She did die because of me. I screwed up and she paid for my mistake with her life."

Devon stumbled back a step, breath ripped from him at the man's admission, at the truth that Jo had died for Dean. That she couldn't waste a Saturday night on the likes of him but she had sacrificed her life for a man who only knew how to use people, to hurt people, to screw up and get people killed.

"Dean don't!" Sam choked out. '_Don't confess, don't put the guilt on yourself, don't allow Devon to slice you open like this_.' "It wasn't your fault! The hunt …it went all wrong."

"Didn't go wrong enough that you two didn't survive, did it?" Devon jumped into the brotherly interchange. "That's the thing…you two always survive. Bodies everywhere…but you two walk away clean. And I'm suppose to think that's just _**luck**_?!" he incredulously asked, eyes sweeping between Dean and Sam. "Well your luck's run out," he grumbled. Turning on his heels he stalked to the table, grabbed his gun, slapped the magazine into place and slid a bullet into the chamber. Spinning around, he crossed the distance that separated him from Dean quickly and raised the gun, wished that the man could see it coming. Knew that the cocking of the gun, it would have to be dread enough.

In horror, Bobby watched Devon aim the gun at Dean's head, felt like he was again trapped inside his own skin, terror washing over him as Meg ordered him to kill Dean with his own hands. "It was a hunt! Things happen, go wrong! Like you've never lost hunting partners before!" he roared.

Sam shouted out his own convictions, "You're right, Jo did love Dean! And killing Dean isn't going to change that! She died to _save _him. And you're about to make her sacrifice for nothing!" he pointed out, spoke the long held back belief because it needed to be said, that if Dean was going to die, he should know that truth. In Carthage, he wasn't the one who realized Dean had gone down under the hounds, wasn't the one who turned back to save his brother…Jo had.

Sam had never missed the look in Jo's eyes when they lighted on his brother – had seen Jessica look at him that same way. A tear tracked down his face, grieved at Jo's loss, at Dean's pain, at the new guilt this knowledge would inflict on Dean. "She loved Dean, she got hurt saving him and she died fighting. You think, if she had to do it again, she would do anything different, Devon! You knew her. She was strong, a fighter…fought for the people who couldn't protect themselves. And she fought most fiercely for the people she loved."

Devon's own eyes welled and the gun trembled in his hands.

Dean raised his head, wouldn't give Devon the satisfaction of appearing to cower under his judgment, even if he couldn't look the younger man in the eyes. "Go ahead. Do it. I deserve it. Jo's dead because of me and so are a lot of other people. A whole lot. So you do it, you kill me." Because the tally of deaths at his feet? He couldn't deny the number any more – His Dad, Pamela, Ellen, Jo, Marshall Hall, Layla, the people he failed to save, not to mention all of the deaths the apcoliptic war had caused. All because of him. Because of his weakness, his failures, the evil in himself that he hadn't been able to deny in Hell. "Just let Bobby and Sam go. They were only following my lead. It stops with me." '_Just like it began with me_.'

"No!" Sam screamed, not sure who he was more furious with: Devon for contemplating killing his brother or Dean for baiting Devon to kill him. How could Dean think, once again, that sacrificing his own life would save everyone he loved instead of condemning them to soul annihilating despair. "No!!"

"Don't you dare do it!" Bobby thundered, praying to God that, if He did one miracle for him, it would be to not make him lose his surrogate sons all over again. Not like this. Not so soon after getting them back, getting Dean back.

Devon's hand trembled more under the outburst of Sam and Bobby, at the surprising, cold, prodding of Dean Winchester that spoke of guilt not callousness. His finger rested on the trigger. He thought of Jo's smile, Pamela's flirtations, that Ellen had given him an open offer to use the cot in the back of the Roadhouse. Dean Winchester, in one way or another, had gotten all of them killed.

Suddenly, behind Devon, Sam watched an unfamiliar man sweep into the room and yank Devon's gun down, causing it to point at the floor instead of his brother. Whoever the early forty year old man with dark hair and a soldier's build was, Sam was in his debt. Drawing in a shaking breath, Sam watched the scene between the two men.

"I told you to track them down, not to kill them!" the new arrival charged, face to face with Devon, who seemed to stiffen under the other man's condemnation.

"Oh, right, you're the only one worthy to play jury, judge and executioner," Devon shot back, gun hanging loosely in his hand, feeling like a weight of responsibility had been lifted from him even as he railed at the older man's rule over him.

Instead of refuting Devon's claim, the man sharply ordered, "Go get some air. Now."

Devon turned on his heel like a good subordinate soldier, stalked into the kitchen and Sam could hear the sharp slam of the kitchen door. Turning his focus on the man who ordered Devon around like a commanding officer, Sam was surprised to see the man grimace as he looked at Dean. Read the silence curse on his lips.

"Grant, you're part of this!?" Bobby's angry, incredulous question ripped through the air.

The new arrival, Grant, ran a hand through his hair and turned to Bobby. "Devon was just supposed to track you down, keep you in one place until I got here," he said, as if it were an apology for the crap they had gone through.

"So you just got out of prison and you wanted to have a reunion?" Dean conjectured a hard edge to his tone even as he pulled on a smirk. "Honestly, I didn't miss you that much."

Turning back to Dean, Grant reached out for the older Winchester.

"Don't touch him!" Sam ordered, his threat clear if more harm came to his brother. He didn't _care_ that Bobby and Dean knew the man. It meant nothing in comparison to the man's association with Devon, that he was part of the scheme that lead to the torture Dean was enduring.

Halting his hand mid way, Grant eyed Sam a moment in contemplation. Then, in some kind of decision, he came to crouch in front of Dean but didn't again reach for the vulnerable hunter, bowed his head a little to be able to look up into Dean's face. "A lot has happened since we hunted together, Dean," Grant said, voice calm, even fond. "And, like you know, I've been in prison for the past five years."

"I read about it in the hunter's quarterly," Dean quipped, not sure if the odds of his survival had increased or totally nose dived now that the mastermind of the day's events had revealed himself.

Grant smirked. "Same old Dean…and yet, you're not are you?" a sadness there instead of judgment. "I heard about your Dad's dying…and then Gordon's beliefs, the Roadhouse burning…then Gordon's death..…and now Ellen, Jo and Pamela. Seems to me that's a lot of death around you, both of you," he said, turned to look at Sam, who glared at his accuser. Then he re-sighted on Dean. He almost said apologetically, "I can't overlook that kid. There has to be judgment, order, even in our screwed up world."

Bobby joined the fray. "And you think that's on you? That since you were a cop once upon a time that you get to decide whether these boys are good or evil?!"

Grant looked over his shoulder to Bobby. "Someone has to. Our numbers are dwindling, Bobby, and a lot of those deaths have the Winchester name tied in with them."

"They've been fighting to save those hunters! To win the war," Bobby shot back, irate that, instead of thanks for their sacrifices, Sam and Dean were getting a court martial.

"War?" Grant scoffed. "Last I checked this wasn't Afghanistan, Singer."

"Last you hunted was five years ago,_" _Bobby censoriously railed back, not willing to let Grant slander the boys, especially when he was clearly blind to what was going on.

But Grant answered Bobby's anger with civility, "That's why I wanted to gather the facts, to talk to Dean…to you…to meet Sam. I want to know the facts."

"And after you do?" Sam coldly asked, because the facts, they weren't exactly in their favor.

Grant turned his head and leveled his blue eyed gaze on Dean's brother. "Then I'll decide if you live or die," he matter-of-factly stated. Standing up, he walked out of the room, went outside to join Devon.

Sam flinched at Grant's blunt authoritative resolve, felt momentarily bereaved at the loss of Devon's hot headedness. His eyes sought out Bobby's, saw that Bobby's eyes held dread. "I take it he's not the bluffing kind?"

"Never," Bobby worriedly snapped before his eyes traveled to Dean. His next words were for the wounded man of their group, "Grant and Pamela..they were pretty serious for a few years. And he was close to Ellen and treated Jo like a little sister. If he believes they were killed because you and Sam were reckless..or worse…" he let the outcome unspoken.

The revelation of Grant's ties with the three women who had died because of their association with him, it wasn't the best news Dean could have gotten right then. Especially since Grant's judgment wasn't going to just be on him, would definitely fall on Sam too. "And the hits keep on coming," he mumbled under his breath, felt foolish for feeling relief when he had first heard Grant's voice a few moment before. '_Yeah, like there's been any good news lately.'_

Before the three men could continue their private conversation, Grant reentered the room, holding a basin and Bobby's huge box of first aid supplies that he kept under the kitchen sink. Sam tracked Grant's every move with apprehensive, was startled to realize that the hunter meant to tend to Dean's injuries.

"Let me do that," Sam said, was surprised how achingly desperate he sounded. When Grant looked at him with distrust, he forced himself to calm down, use logic to get what he wanted. "With Dean and Bobby unable to go anywhere, I'm not going to run off." He held still under the man's intense inspection but took a relieved breath when Grant nodded his head, sat the basin, which contained water, unto the floor in front of Dean and crossed over to him.

Sam kept his eyes on Dean as Grant slipped behind him, unlocked his cuffs. Readily he came to his feet only to have a wave of lightheadedness wash over him. A strong hand gripped his forearm, steadied him. In surprised gratitude, he looked to Grant, was met with a probing look that might have held a measure of concern.

"You alright?" Grant quietly asked, wondering what injuries the younger Winchester had that he couldn't detect by sight. Though, to be honest, the tall man looked almost paler than his obviously wounded brother. The man nodded his dark head and pulled free of his grip, went directly to his brother and sank to his knees beside his brother's chair.

"Hey, it's me," Sam greeted gently, one hand coming to settle on Dean' knee while the other reached up, gently raised his brother's chin to reveal his ravaged facial features.

At first Dean tensed when he sensed someone drawing closer to him, but at the sound of his brother's voice, he welcomed the touch that followed, on his knee then on his face. He allowed Sam's fingers to tilt his head up. Uncertain of their company, he didn't speak, waited for cues from Sam.

"It's a pepper based solution, very potent but it shouldn't have damaged his eyes," Grant quietly supplied, knew that Devon hadn't lied to him about that, wouldn't dare. Regardless of the younger man's recent misjudgment.

"Great, then Dean will be able to see me kill you," Bobby furiously snapped, covering his relief with anger.

Grant let Bobby's threat go unanswered, simply stood there, watching the interchange between the brothers, heard the quiet, gentle tones, watched the tender way Sam touched his brother. He had known Dean Winchester, had trusted him to watch his back on a few hunts, knew that Dean had had a younger brother who didn't live the hunter's life. But the reports that had reached his ears while in prison for his hunting activities were about both of the brothers, about the destruction that followed in their combined wake. Whatever Dean Winchester was alone, he was something else when he was at his brother's side. Many, like Gordon, had touted the youngest Winchester as the bringer of evil, someone in sheep's clothing but was the wolf in the fold. Others claimed that Dean Winchester was a spawn of hell itself, that he had even gone to hell and come out to unleash hell on earth. And then there were still others who claimed that the Winchesters were heroes, claimed that their lives had been saved by the two brothers, vowed that Dean and Sam Winchester had purposefully risked their own lives to save the lives of strangers. Saints or sinners, worthy of death or of fealty, good or evil? He didn't know what the Winchester were but he had vowed after Pamela's death to find out. And after the loss of Ellen and Jo in the Winchesters' presence, his mind was almost made up.

But Grant was a man of justice, had been a soldier and a police officer, didn't believe in revenge, as sweet as it called to him. No, he would hear the Winchesters' side of things and then he would be what Devon accused him of wanting to be: their judge, their jury and if they were guilty, he would be their executioner. And no matter how much the brothers obviously cared for one another, he swore he wouldn't let that sway his resolve to do what was right. Not just for him or Pamela or Ellen or Jo but for all the hunters who were fighting, dying, who had to know who they could trust to have their backs in this present war that Bobby swore they were engaged in.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

Sam's focus was on his brother, on the blistering of the skin around Dean's eyes, on the tears that tracked down his brother's face, on the blood that stained Dean's clothing. Internally he debated which injury to tend to first, knew that the source of Dean's greatest pain was his eyes.

"Dean, I'm going to wash out your eyes," Sam gently informed before he doused a cloth into the water. "Tilt your head back." His brother meekly complied, did it without comment or protest. And to Sam, that felt like a devastating sign of just how defeated Dean felt, that submission. Looking over his shoulder, noticing that Grant had left, that no one but Bobby was there to watch them…or hear them, he turned back to Dean. But the words to ease Dean's pain, his guilt, they didn't come. Hadn't come since Pamela had died…and Ellen and Jo had died.

Determined to ease his brother's physical pain if not his emotional torture, he leaned closer to Dean, withdrew the water drenched towel and warned "Here comes the water," before he held the towel over his brother's tipped up face and squeezed the towel, allowed the water to cascade down over his brother's eyes.

Dean instinctively squeezed his eyes tighter under the water but he felt a measure of the burning pain of his skin dampen. Was ashamed that he startled when Sam's hand settled on the side of his neck, a tactic to calm him, to connect them. When the waterfall stopped, he could hear the sound of water sloshing, knew that Sam was rewetting the towel.

Repeating the procedure, Sam moved the towel closer to his brother's eyes, watched as the water washed over Dean's closed eyes, ran rivets down his face and neck to slip under his brother's shirt. "Is it helping at all?" he quietly asked.

Dean could hear the vulnerability in his brother's question. He knew that, if he could look at Sam, he would see that sorrowful, hurt look his brother always wore when he knew he was hurting and he wasn't able to take the pain away. "Yeah," he replied, voice a little hoarse.

Sam's jaw clenched at his brother's obvious lie, not in anger but heartbreaking defeat. Dean was trying to make _him _feel better. Was pulling the same old big brother act he always did. "You're lying," he said, his voice breaking slightly, because he wanted to help Dean and couldn't. And this was new how?!

"I can't see but it burns less," Dean clarified, responding more truthfully to Sam that time.

It was crazy but Sam had an almost uncontrollable urge to hug his brother at Dean's words, at his brother's ability to be kind to him even amid the worst situations. Crap but he loved the stupid jerk.

Knowing that his efforts were doing some good, he doused the towel and rained the water over his brother's eyes again before resoaking it. Dean sat still, like he rarely did, let him do his ministrations without instructions or complaints or edginess. And Sam hated it.

"I'm going to lay the cloth on your eyes, see if that does any better," Sam narrated, and Dean nodded his tilted back head slightly in acceptance. Following through, Sam tenderly laid the soaking towel across his brother's eyes. When Dean flinched at the contact, he put his hand tentatively on Dean's cheek.

Dean leaned more fully back in the chair, more of the tension slipping away at Sam's closeness. The connection that Sam had instilled between them shone some hope on the void that presently coiled around him. Sam was there. For all the times he had felt Sam had left him alone, had deserted him, had wanted nothing more than to be free of him, Sam was there now. When he needed him. '_And I wasn't there when he needed me in the panic room_,' he chastised, had not gone to his brother no matter how often Sam had called …screamed his name.

"When you called for me…I should have come into the panic room," Dean quietly said, unsure of their audience but he knew the apology had to be said. He owed Sam that much and so much more.

Dean's statement caught Sam off guard, made him regard his brother's features closely. "No, Dean, I told you not to. You were doing what I asked."

Dean swallowed visibly. "You were …screaming for me…and I…I.."

"I hurt you before Dean," Sam pointed out quickly, didn't want this to be another point of guilt for his brother. "Back in that motel with Ruby…I know I can't wholly blame the blood but…what I did.. …"

"I'm not real proud of what I did there either, Sam," Dean admitted, for the first time honestly replying to Sam's attempt to apologize. "Neither one of us was thinking very clearly, OK."

And it was a gift, Dean's forgiveness. A gift Sam didn't want to dishonor. "And in the panic room, I was messed up Dean. Had hallucinations that…" he gave a bitter bark of laughter, "they weren't pretty. And I couldn't control the powers…or my thoughts…or my emotions. Trust me, the last place I wanted you to be was in there with me, Dean, because the last thing I want to do is hurt you again."

"You know that's good because I seem to have enough people wanting to take a shot at me," Dean smart-alecked, needing to lighten the mood, to pretend that his brother's words didn't make his throat tight with emotions.

"Yeah, I noticed that." Sam smirked, shook his head, felt some of his worry for Dean lessen at the comeback. Dean was still in there, hurt and blinded and feeling guilty but still sparring with words when he couldn't fight any other way. Removing the towel, he doused it in the water again but rang it out a little this time before he lightly dabbed at his brother's closed eyes, was relieved that Dean didn't even flinch once. Then he used the towel to carefully wipe Dean's face of the remnant streaks of tears, pepper spray and water. It reminded him of the times his big brother had wiped ice cream from his face when they were growing up, when Dean had taken care of him.

Rewetting the towel, he dabbed at the red, blistered skin around Dean's eyes, his other hand again cupping his brother's cheek. "Devon had to have really increased the potency of the pepper spray 'cause it shouldn't be this bad."

"Hunters have to improvise," Dean lightly pointed out, almost like he admired the other man's ingenuity. Sam wasn't that generous with his opinion.

"His _improvising_ isn't going to help him," Sam darkly promised, had half a dozen lovely scenarios running through his head what he would do to Devon when he got the chance.

Dean let the threat go, didn't know if he should waste his energy warning Sam off, especially when them surviving Grant's trial didn't seem all that likely. Instead he scoffed, "This so isn't an improvement to being locked in the panic room, is it? In there, you might have been able to lay low."

Sam tilted his head in confusion. "Yeah, it's an improvement," he snorted, the words a resolute statement, one that Dean should know without being told.

"Come again?" Dean retorted, disbelief in his tone as he cocked his head toward Sam.

"We're together," Sam bluntly stated, as if it were the most obvious and swaying evidence. Ever. And it was..to him. Whatever crap storm that life had to thrown at them, he knew that to stand in the gales at Dean's side? It was more than he could ask for…or deserved.

Dean chuckled, "Dude, your standards are low."

"They always have been when it comes to you," Sam shot back, affection clear in his tone.

"Funny," Dean grumbled but the same element that was in Sam's tone was in his own. Knew that, for all the times that he had been left alone, had purposefully walked alone, had even resigned himself to being alone, he wasn't alone anymore. That Sam wasn't secretly hoping to get rid of him, to be free of him. That Sam meant what he had said. For him, them being together? It was better than being safe. And Dean couldn't refute that, figured that being safe, it was probably overrated anyway.

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TBC

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Thanks for reading and for the reviews from last chapter!

And sorry about any errors…I rewrote this chapter again and again and just couldn't torture my beta by making her reread it!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	5. Chapter 5

Honoring the Dead

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.

Author's Note: It seems almost pointless to continue this tale as I've been Kripke'd all over the place but I can't leave the poor boys and Bobby in such straits. So the story must go on, I guess. Anyway, it's a long chapter this time.

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Chapter 5

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Dean couldn't help a flinch when Sam dabbed the towel on a particularly tender section of his skin under his right eye.

"Sorry," Sam instantly apologized, lifting the towel and tossing it back into the basin of water with a splash, angry that his "help" was only hurting Dean further. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "This isn't doing much besides hurting you and getting you wet. You need to get under a flow of water to wash it out or we need to get some saline solution drops for your eyes."

"Sure, Ok, Sam. I'll ask Grant if I can take a quick shower before the execution hearings reconvene," Dean wise cracked, knew that Grant was a fair man but not someone to try and manipulate.

Sam sighed, read the meaning under Dean's flippancy. A shower? A trip to the store for saline? It wasn't happening right then. "Would it help if I covered your eyes?" he quietly asked, hated that the question meant defeat, that he wasn't going to ease any more of Dean's pain, was simply going to cover it up, bury it like Dean covered up all his pain.

"Yeah," Dean tiredly agreed, surprised that Sam had seen the hopelessness of his previous line of thinking. '_Course hopelessness and us seem to go hand in hand lately_.' And somehow, him being hopeless was OK, but Sam being hopeless? He didn't like that one iota. Hated it, in fact. "Hey, MacGyver got blinded and he still managed to be the hero, so don't count me out of this fight," he cockily said, did it for Sam, would always find the strength to fight for his brother.

A scoffing small laugh escaped Sam as he grabbed the bandage wrap from the first aid kit. Let it up to Dean to think of a TV show to compare their crappy life with. "You only remember that episode because you had the hots for the woman assassin."

"Well, yeah," Dean readily agreed as if Sam was stupid for having to even voice that. "She was hot as Hope on Days of our Lives but her playing an assassin?! What a turn on, that was.."

Coiling the bandage around Dean's head, Sam couldn't help smiling. "You watched a _soap opera, _Dean?"

Dean cleared his throat in embarrassment. "I think we have more important things to think about, Sam, than what I used to watch on TV."

"So that's a 'yes'," Sam pressed with a chuckle, shaking his head as he stood up, moved behind Dean and tied a knot in the bandage he had wound around his brother's head. Coming around to face Dean, he crouched down, inspected his work with a critical eye. He carefully pulled the cloth bandage down a few centimeters to make sure his brother's eyes were effectively covered.

"So how do I look?" Dean joked a second later, "It would be better if I had a pirate patch, right?"

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat because Dean looked vulnerable, broken, and that tore a hole right through him.

But Dean had Sam radar, didn't have to see Sam's face, could tell by the catch in his brother's breathing what was going through his little brother's head. "Hey, Sammy, it's not permanent," he gently reassured, making sure his voice didn't carry beyond them.

Sam inhaled, nodded his head before he realized that Dean couldn't see that gesture. "I know," he spoke aloud, hated that his voice was hoarse, broadcast to Dean how upset he was. Clearing his own throat, he said with more confidence, "I know. So you know this guy Grant?"

Dean was relieved at the change in topic, at Sam's decision to focus on the crucial problem at hand, at the loss of some of the despair in his brother's tone. "Yeah. Hunted with him a few times."

"You and Dad?" The hesitation in his blinded brother was almost imperceptible, would have been for someone that didn't know Dean as well as Sam did.

"No. Just me."

And there it was, the proof that Sam didn't want. The irrefutable proof that, the conviction that he had consoled himself with while he was at Stanford? It was a lie. Dean and Dad, they hadn't had each other's backs, they hadn't been watching out for each other, they hadn't been _safe_. They hadn't even been _together_.

Again Sam nodded his head in grim acceptance, didn't need Dean to see the gesture. He knew the truth, that _strangers_ had covered his brother's back when he hadn't, when he had refused to. "But you trusted Grant…then." Hoped that Dean hadn't been desperate enough to hunt with someone that he didn't trust. '_He hunts with you, doesn't he? That should answer that question pretty clearly_,' he internally scoffed, wished that he could undo the thousand wrong decisions that he had made in the past, could be someone Dean could trust, should trust.

Not knowing the minefield that the question was, Dean answered it with straightforwardness. "Yeah, totally. He always had my back."

Dean's words were a knife in Sam's gut, made his retort come out churlish, "Ah yeah, and now he wants to stick a knife in your back." Relishing, deep down, that Dean was wrong about trusting Grant, that the man was proving no more worthy of his brother's trust than he was.

"Thanks for pointing that out, Sammy," Dean groused, sat up straighter in the chair and leaned further away from his brother's presence. Already stung by Grant's betrayal, he didn't need Sam's gloating.

As Dean shifted away from him, Sam silently cursed his jealousy, his pride, his need to put someone else higher on Dean's crap list than he was. "Dean, I…"

Dean spoke over Sam's words. "Bobby?" his call tentative, uncertain if the other man was close enough to hear him, was even in the same room with them anymore.

Bobby almost startled when Dean called out his name, felt like he had been caught eavesdropping on the brothers' conversation red handed. "Yeah, it's not like I can go anywhere," he bad-temperedly answered, used the gruff tone to hide his emotions, his fears, like he always did. Always thought if the boys were too busy running away and ducking from his verbal abuse they might not figure out how much he cared about them, that they were his Achilles heel. Both of them.

Dean smiled at the cranky but fearless reply. "Thought you might be out in the kitchen, cooking up a burger for Devon."

Bobby snorted. "That'll be a cold day in…" he broke off, having no intention of ever lightly referring to the place Dean had been. To the place that had broken the man he loved like a son. No sirree, that place didn't deserve to slip off his tongue. Ever. Unless they were talking about sending their enemies there. And right now, Devon and Grant were falling into that category. "Instead of smart mouthing me, you might want to concentrate on convincing Grant to…I don't know, not kill you!"

"That's a swell plan. Any ideas _how_?"

Entering the fray, Sam proposed, "We'll tell him everything that happened, how it happened."

Dean couldn't believe Sam was so naïve, after all they had been through. "Everything?! Why don't we just claim the devil made us do it. Or in Pamela's case, an angel did?!"

"Dean, we have to make him see…"

"What?! That their deaths weren't our fault? That we couldn't have prevented them?!" angry disbelief rattled in Dean's words.

"Yes," Sam calmly, resolutely vowed, knew that it was the truth. And that should mean _something. _ But his brother's reply, it didn't mirror his belief, held only despair and defeat.

"How am I supposed to convince him of that when I don't even believe it, Sam?" And he didn't. Didn't buy a word Sam was selling. It was their fault. He should have saved Pamela, and Ellen ….and Jo. Somehow. They had counted on him to protect them, to keep them safe. At the very least, to not get them _killed_. He had failed them on all counts, in every possible way.

Dean's question, the weight of guilt each of his brother's words carried, it confirmed Sam's worst fears. Dean blamed himself for the death of all three women, regardless of the circumstances, that he was there too, that they were in a war. To his brother, none of that mattered. To Dean, there was no excuse for the loss of a person that he cared about.

"So you want Grant to just kill you?" Sam asked, his tone light, almost conversational. "Give you what you deserve?" But his next words were raw with emotion. "Crap, if that's the way you feel, why did I bother getting detoxed?! We should have done a murder - suicide pact and saved everyone the trouble of this trial."

"Sam, don't get all dramatic," Dean growled, thought Sam should know by now that he wasn't going to murder him, that that wasn't ever going to happen.

Sam reached out, clutching onto Dean's shirt and gave his brother a rough shake as he hissed, "And don't you quit on me!" leaning so close that his breath hit Dean in the face. "I didn't survive another round of detox for me, I did it for you. 'Cause the last thing I can bear is losing you, you stupid jerk. I've learned the hard way that I can survive just about anything but that. So don't you tell me you're going to just lie down and die, let Grant judge us for things we never wanted to happen."

"Will you two shut up!" Bobby cut into the brothers' mêlée. "I can't hear myself think!" When Sam looked his way and Dean tilted his head in his direction, he got himself under control, dug out his calm, rational tone. "Now maybe you two haven't noticed but the line of work you're in is dangerous. Thought you got that point when you both died." But he instantly regretted the callous reference. Especially when he saw Sam's eyes morph into a pool of grief, when the younger Winchester's hands possessively tightened onto his brother's shirt, knew that his words had Sam reliving Dean's death, burying his brother. When he spoke again, his tone was gentle but unwavering, "Pamela was a psychic. Ellen and Jo were hunters. They were part of this fight. Were always going to be, whether or not they ever laid eyes on the two of you."

"Pamela…" Dean started in protest but Bobby didn't let him continue.

"She had stuff running through her head 24/7, Dean. There was no closing up shop and being a PTA mom. And Bill, he brought the fight to Ellen, to Jo long before you even heard their names."

"Well then we should have kept them out of our fight," Dean refuted, knew that the dangers of their particular war with heaven and hell were high, higher than your normal, run of the mill hunter or psychic would have had to face.

But Bobby's comeback was instantaneous and unyielding. "Your 'fight' is everybody's fight. Less they like the notion of an apocalyptic redecoration of their world. Right now you're either a fighter or a victim. Don't you dare call those women victims."

Grant's voice was an unwelcome intrusion into the family's conversation. "Funny, seems like all you Winchesters leave behind is a trail of victims." Eyes searing into Bobby as if he was disappointed in the man's allegiance, Grant came to a stop beside Sam's crouched figure. "How is he?" he asked, his focus coming to rest on Dean, taking in the cloth that covered the expert hunter's eyes.

Though Sam opened his mouth, it was Dean who made a reply. "Oh, I'm just super. I already got my blindfold for the execution. I just need a cigarette and I'm good to go. But I think Bobby would appreciate it if you finished this up outside. He's not that into painting over bloodstains."

Fearing that Grant would take Dean up on his offer, Sam stood, put himself smack dab between Grant and his brother. A threat burned out of his eyes, told Grant that, to get to Dean, he would have to go through him. He tensed as Devon and his men entered the room, stood behind Grant, willing and able to back whatever play the older hunter made.

Grant's eyes met Sam's and silence reigned before he gestured to Sam's empty chair. "How about you take a seat again," he said as if he were a man offering a guest a cherished chair.

"I'm not done patching Dean up," Sam refuted, that familiar anger building in him.

"Yeah, you are," Devon bit out and he stepped forward, intent on shoving Sam into the chair. But Grant's arm blocked his forward progression.

"I showed you trust by letting you out of your chair, letting you tend to your brother. Now return the favor," Grant rationalized like he was negotiating a peace treaty.

"Excuse me if I don't trust a man who let his dog loose on my brother," Sam sharply retorted, eyes sliding back to Devon's, in case the younger man missed the insult.

Cursing, Devon shoved Grant's arm out of his way and stalked for Sam.

Lightening fast, Grant turned to Devon and clamped his hand tightly around Devon's bicep, stopping the younger man's forward motion. His voice was stern as he leaned closer to Devon. "Have you forgotten everything I taught you?! You're not just some punk looking for revenge. We hunt to help people, we eliminate only the people that are against our cause."

Shaking out of Grant's loosened hold, Devon scoffed, "Our cause?! You've been out of the game! You don't know the stakes anymore, Grant! And these guys," his eyes spiked to Sam, "they are worse than anything we've ever hunted. They are humans who are killing every hunter they come across. If you heard what I have about them…."

"I have," Grant cut in and there was no mistaking the conviction in his tone. "I know the number of deaths that they have been linked to."

"Then you know!" Devon shouted back. "We should just kill them."

"And if we kill them and they were innocent, then we become the monsters," Grant shot back, his eyes pouring into Devon's.

Devon held Grant's stare for a few moments. Then he nodded his head in agreement, confident that the truth would prove him right, would give Grant the evidence that he needed to take out the Winchesters with a clear conscience. He could let Grant play his game a while longer, long as the outcome was the same.

Seeing Devon's acceptance of his rationale, Grant pulled a gun out from under his shirt and turned back to Sam. Though the gun muzzle was aimed at the floor, he knew that the weapon's mere presence would clear up any misunderstanding Sam Winchester had about how far he could push him. "I don't know if you're on our side or not, but if you don't sit down right now, I will shoot you."

Dean had heard that tone from Grant before and he didn't doubt the man's fortitude to follow through on his threat. Not for one second. "Sam, sit down," he sharply commanded.. Cursed his inability to stand between his brother and Devon, to reach out and hold Sam back, to even see what was going on because of him. "Sit. Down," his tone taking on that menacing ring to it that even John Winchester had conceded to. At least on occasion.

But Sam wasn't his father, had no intention of backing down if this was his only chance to save Dean, to save Bobby. Would risk his life for the ones he loved without regret. Eyes flickering indecisively to Bobby, he saw the minuscule shake of the older hunter's head. Knew that, some things were more dear than even survival. Like not losing the trust of Dean and Bobby that he was struggling to regain. So putting his trust fully in Dean and Bobby's instincts and not Grant's mercy, he walked back to his chair, sank down into its hard depths and allowed one of Devon's men to put the handcuffs back on his wrists.

Honestly relieved that he didn't have to shoot Dean's little brother without provocation, Grant stepped forward and put his gun down on Bobby's desk. Straightening his shoulders, he turned around, leaned up against the desk and faced his captive audience. "I, of all people, know what kind of hits your reputation takes for hunting, the kind of laws we break, the charges that get filed against us. But these," he reached into his jacket and pulled out a file, flipped it open. "They aren't normal." He pulled a sheet from the file, held it up for Sam to see. He wasn't sure if he felt victorious or ill that the younger man's face paled in recognition. "Two women murdered in St. Louis," he clarified before tossing the picture of the badly lacerated woman's corpse to the floor. He presented another glossy of a man with a slit throat. "Baltimore. A husband and wife with their throats slit." Letting that picture float to the floor too, he presented another picture. "Madison Owens, San Francisco, clean shot to the head."

Whatever color Sam had gained since leaving the panic room vanished at the gruesome sight of Madison lying on a coroner's slab, a hole in her forehead that marred her beautiful features.

Dropping the picture of Madison, Grant held up a picture of a pretty blond woman with a fatal knife wound in her chest. "Bank Robbery ending in three fatalities in Milwaukee, Wisconsin." That picture he stepped forward and slapped against Dean's chest, causing the older Winchester to wince, in surprise or pain, he didn't know which. "Last time I checked, you drew the line at murdering people," he hissed in the blind, bound man's ear. "So explain to me how you're on the hook for all these deaths, Dean!"

But his answer came from the other Winchester brother.

"Shapeshifter, frame up, werewolf and shapeshifter," Sam heatedly answered, angry that this man, this hunter that had once earned Dean's hard to win trust could think Dean capable of murder. '_He's not the murderer, I am_. _I'm the one that killed that nurse who just had the misfortune of being possessed, of having blood running through her veins that I needed. No, that I __wanted__.'_

Grant didn't face Sam, instead he leaned closer to Dean, spoke by his ear, "Frame up? Really? That's the best you got."

Again it was Sam who defended Dean. "A cop killed that man and needed a fall guy. Dean, with his rap sheet, was a perfect choice."  
Grant still didn't deviate any of his attention to Sam, remained at Dean's side, towered over the sightless man. "And you just happened to be in the house where he killed his second _victim_, a woman?! You know I don't believe in coincidences, Dean."

Angry that the man was trying to brow beat Dean, that he was leaning intimidatingly over his vulnerable brother, Sam's explanation came out as a murderous growl. "A ghost was involved, that's why we were there. One of the cop's earlier victims wanted to warn others that they were in danger, wanted to have the truth come out. Dean was trying to save that woman!"

Without warning, Grant switched gears, swung to face Sam. "And what about her?" he accused, jerking his chin to the picture on the floor a few steps away from his position. The picture of Madison. "This one's on your wrap sheet. Were you trying to _save_ her?" he demanded, derision in his tone.

"I.." Sam stammered, the sight of Madison's lifeless body causing surprising hurt, even after all the time that had passed, the other things that he had done in the name of love, of mercy.

Having followed the conversation enough to know who Grant was referring to without the aid of his sight, Dean felt all his dormant protective instincts flare to life. There was no way he was letting Grant force Sam into talking about Madison, into confessing to murder when what his brother had done was all about mercy. Grant could lay any charges against him he wanted to but his brother was off limits. "Sam, he's just yanking our chain. He knows they were all legit hunts. Don't you, Grant?" Turning his head to where he guessed Grant was, he confidently recounted, "You interviewed people, poured over every detail of the police and FBI reports. You already know everything about Baltimore, St. Louis, San Francisco and Milwaukee. I know you've never walked into a hunt without every scrap of information that you could get your hands on first. So why don't you cut the crap. Either get the guts to hear what happened to Pamela and Ellen and Jo or let us go."

Dean's blunt ultimatum sucked the air from the very room, caused all occupants to straighten up in dread. Sam's heart raced in his chest, too late deciding that talking about Madison, it was better than talking about Pamela and Ellen and Jo, about three women who didn't ask for death, who had wanted to live. Who had died, not because of their own misfortunate run-in with the supernatural, but because of their devotion to him and Dean.

It took Grant a moment to recover his equilibrium enough to reply to Dean's words. "I should have remembered that you like to just jump into the thick of things – go in swinging. Or is it go down swinging?" he sallied, inferring that Dean's defeat ratio was high.

"Just call me Tarzan," Dean quirked back, not raising to Grant's insult. The man didn't know the first thing about just how often he had gone down swinging. And he sure didn't know just how far down he had gone. Would maybe go again if heaven's doors were as closed to him as he thought they might be.

Determined to knock down Dean Winchester's formable wall, to get the truth, whether he wanted to hear it or not, Grant's next question went for the jugular, his mercy falling away to be replaced by his need for retribution for wrongs done. "Fine. Steve Wandel." And the Winchesters, they were good at lying, at conning, at deception, but then again so was he. He could tell by the stillness in Dean and Sam's slight shift that the deceased hunter's name meant something to them. "Tell me how you're tied to his murder." He wanted to know this, needed to. Wandel had been a fellow hunter but more than that, he had been a friend. And Grant had so few of those, only allowed himself that luxury rarely. Felt a tinge of doubt as he recalled that he had once classified Dean Winchester as a friend too.

Dean and Sam spoke in unison. "I was possessed."

Sam's head snapped to his brother, shocked that Dean was covering for him. He had believed that his big brother was done protecting him. Forever. That after the evil things that he had done, that Dean knew he was capable of doing, that his brother thought he wasn't in need of his protection…or deserving of it. Especially after Dean had watched him do six exorcisms at once, after he had killed Famine with his _mind_, had realized that he hadn't been strong enough to not fall off the wagon, could guess that it wouldn't be the last time that happened.

"Both of you possessed?" Grant sarcastically challenged, reading Devon's anger building at the brothers' lie.

"What can I say. We like tag team sports," Dean snarkily replied, always bringing his smart mouth to the table.

Trying to not let Winchester provoke his anger, Grant drawled, "Ok, I'm supposed to just take your word? When I know at least one of you is lying? Yeah, good way to earn my trust."

"I was the one possessed," Sam confessed without further provocation, not willing to let Dean's reputation take another hit, especially this hit. "Dean's just trying to …protect me. I killed Wandel."

"No! Meg killed him, Sam. Not you," Dean passionately argued, had dreaded the day their secret would come to the light. "Grant, Sam was possessed by Meg. And she wanted Sam and I to turn against each other, decided to use Sam as a weapon against other hunters."

Devon, unable to stomach the soap opera in silence, stepped forward, growled, "Which is all hearsay. How convenient for you two. All the murderers in the world would love to claim that "I was possessed." Rates right up there with the insanity plea."

"I have to agree with Devon. You can't prove this…" Grant levelly announced, found that he wanted to trust Dean but there was no proof to back up the man's words.

Dean sighed in frustration, wondered if the video tape of possessed Sam killing Wandel would help or hurt them right about then. Course it would just be more visual aids that he couldn't see.

"Tattoos," the word burst out of Sam like it was an answer all by itself. "We got tattoos to make sure neither one of us got possessed again," Sam hurriedly supplied, eyes latching onto Grant's, imploring the other man to take his proof seriously.

"Yes!" Dean readily chimed in. "You know I wouldn't mar this fabulous body of mine with a tattoo unless I had to."

Grant's eyebrow quirked up as did his lips at this new "evidence". "Do I want to _know_ where you put a tattoo?"

Bobby broke into the inquisition, his tone scathing, like Grant shouldn't have to ask, "Where they'd do the most good: above their hearts."

Sam thought there was some symbolism in that: getting a tattoo above his heart so he would never get possessed again and hurt the person he loved most in the world. '_Course I don't need to be possessed to hurt Dean. It just comes naturally to me lately.' _And he fervently wished that there was a ward against that, him hurting his big brother. Wished too that a simple tattoo could ward off the present candidates that wanted to crawl under their skins and take up residence.

Devon stepped forward, intending to find the elusive tattoo on Dean but Grant shoved him toward Sam. Begrudgingly, he obeyed, crossed over to the taller of the two Winchesters. He ignored the glare Sam was sending his way, simply pulled out the knife that still had Dean's blood on it and cut Sam's shirt from the collar down.

Assigning himself the task of checking Dean for the tattoo, Grant came to Dean, warned the sightless man of his approach, his intentions. "I'm just going to get a look at the tattoo." He purposefully didn't imply that he doubted that the tattoo existed. Carefully he began raising Dean's two shirts, winced as he had to pull the t-shirt free from the dried blood on the man's stomach, as he saw the damage "his dog" had inflicted on Winchester. It wasn't what he had wanted to happen but he didn't blame Dean for not believing him, for Dean's brother being pissed at him for his brother's mistreatment. '_If I'm wrong…if Dean's innocent, I've just made two dangerous enemies. If looks could kill, Sam would have killed and buried me already. At least loyalties in the joint were easy to figure out: don't trust anyone.'_

Devon's voice jarred Grant out of his doubts.

"Does this symbol do what they say it does?"

Pushing Dean's shirts higher, Grant saw what Devon had seen on Sam: a black inked tattoo. Surprise ran through him. "Yeah. It's an ancient symbol for protection against possession. Very heavy-duty mojo and it's strengthened by the size of the tattoo and the placement over their hearts." It all spoke of more than mere precaution. It spoke of fear. Terror. His eyes shifted to Dean, was sorry that he couldn't see the other man's eyes, get some hint what the other man was thinking.

Letting Sam's now ripped shirt slide back against his tattooed chest, Devon stood up, faced Grant. "It doesn't prove that either of them was ever possessed."

Again Bobby was the voice of reason. "But the burn mark on Sam's arm does. She locked herself in Sam and I had to break the seal by burning across the circle to get her out."

Roughly twisting Sam's left arm, Devon searched the appendage, went to the right arm before he found the burn that Bobby was talking about. He scowled at the scar, knew that it probably meant what Bobby said it did. Singer wasn't on a lot of hunters' speed dials because he was a great conversationalist. It was because he knew crap about supernatural stuff. Lots of it.

Crossing over to the bound Sam, Grant ran his hand over the scar on the man's arm. He said under his breath, as if he were talking to himself, "It's a few years old," before he forced himself to look at Sam. "Doesn't seem like your soul hitchhiker was ever planning on leaving your body." And he saw the solemn acceptance of that knowledge in Sam, the regret, the fear, the determination that it never happen again. "You awake when Wandel got killed?"

Sam's voice was hoarse. "Yeah." He stilled under Grant's assessment but he couldn't quiet his thoughts. '_And I was there when she unleashed her hell hounds on us, watched as her pets pinned Dean down, tore into Jo_.' But he decided that it wouldn't do any good to reveal Meg's part in Jo and Ellen's deaths. They were on trial here, not Meg. Them.

Coming to a decision, Grant stood up, announced, "They aren't lying."

But Devon railed at his mentor's conviction, "A tattoo and a burn and you're sure?!"

"Yes," Grant firmly proclaimed, faced Devon to ensure the younger man knew how serious he was, how final his ruling on this matter was.

Accepting that Grant's mind was made up about Wandel's death, Devon lobbed another accusation at the Winchesters. "How about the Roadhouse burning to the ground, killing everyone unlucky enough to be inside? Ask your good pal Dean about that!?"

Dean answered before Grant could press him. "Ash was doing research for us. He uncovered something that the opposition didn't want us to find out."

Taking lead on this inquisition, Devon hissed, "Yeah and what was that?"

"That they were planning on opening a gate to hell. They killed Ash and everyone in the Roadhouse so we wouldn't figure that out," Dean evenly supplied, could still remember the feeling in his gut,in his heart, at the sight of the roadhouse's burned out shell, the smell of corpses, the sight of Ash's unrecognizable body, save his watch.

"Figure it out?! You were in on it!" Devon gripped Dean's shirt, leaned close enough for his breath to hit the blinded man in the face, "You turned over the key to the gate, stood there and let it get opened! Rumor is you wanted to get your old man free from the crossroad deal he had made."

"What? No!" Dean denied, shocked that the rumor mill had distorted things so greatly.

Sam's throat dried up at the accusation. No, they hadn't opened that gate to free their father…but he had been willing to do just that to free Dean. Had gone to the gate in Wyoming and pounded his fist against the door, had tried to use Ruby's knife in lieu of the Colt to open the gate, had screamed to anyone, anything that would listen to let his brother out, to take him instead. He had laid against the gate until his screaming turned to sobs, until he had no more breath in him, until the last of his hope was extinguished as finally as the life had left his brother's eyes in New Harmony. No, he and Dean hadn't purposefully opened the gate but he would have, without one shred of conscience, if it had gotten Dean free. It was the same deep seated need that made him drink Ruby's blood, even after Dean was returned to him. What he would do for Dean…he didn't have limitations on that loyalty.

"Don't be an idiot!" Bobby thundered, couldn't understand how men who knew about the evil in the world could believe such a cock and bull story without one shred of proof. "Ellen and I were there too. We were trying to stop the gate from swinging open. We were the ones who closed it, all four of us, or else there would still be an Open For Business sign in that cemetery."

"Gate to Hell?" Grant repeated, disbelief in his tone. "Kid's been talking about apocalyptic signs…" head jerking toward Devon. "Has everyone lost their minds while I was up the river!"

"Maybe," Dean quietly allowed. "Doesn't mean it's not all true. Things started and we're trying to stop them, Grant. Been trying for years and we just didn't know it, couldn't see the big picture."

"End of times?!" Grant snapped as if he thought he was being played for a fool.

"And ye shall hear of wars and rumors of wars…" Bobby began, using his scholarly tone but Grant cut him off harshly.

"Don't quote the Bible to me, Singer! I know the Word."

"Well then turn to the right page, Grant! It starts with an R and is the last book of the Bible," Bobby fired back, frustrated that the man was so close to seeing the truth but was refusing to face it.

"Funny," Grant sneered and he began pacing, gaining the attention of all the room's occupancy, save Dean. But then he drew up short in front of Sam.

Dread washed over Sam as Grant's expression morphed from deniability to acceptance…and then shifted to righteous anger. "So does that mean Gordon Walker was right about you? That you're the monster that kicked off the apocalypse."

"Yes," Sam answered, ready and willing to accept his punishment if it meant Dean and Bobby wouldn't be harmed.

"No," Dean snapped, angry that Sam was trying to shoulder the blame that was his. He knew that the true monster, it was him. That the apocalypse, it rested on his shoulders more than it would ever rest on Sam's. He was the one who gave into evil, knowingly and willingly. For no other reason than his own weakness, his own need to make the agony, the torture stop.

Devon snorted, "This is getting us no where. They lie as easily as I breathe. Too bad they murdered Gordon. He was the one who could tell us the truth."

Grant tilted his head in thought, "Maybe there's someone else that still knows the truth."

"Who?" Devon incredulously asked, not knowing of anyone that knew any first hand accounts of what went down with Gordon or what kicked off the end of the world.

Grant smiled. "Come on, I'll tell you," he said as he walked out of the room. Devon hesitated, gave Sam a scathing look before he followed Grant.

Waiting until Devon's entire entourage followed their master out of the room, Bobby quietly asked, "You know who they are talking about?"

"Nope. Maybe they're planning on getting out a magic talking board and seeing if Gordon's taking their call," Dean said.

Sam shivered at the thought. "Don't even joke about that."

"Who's joking," Dean darkly returned, mind already wondering just who Grant thought could turn out to be his star witness. Gordon, Ruby, Lilith, they weren't in the running. Bobby and Cas knew the truth but somehow he didn't think they would be considered unbiased witnesses.

"I should have made my move to take out Grant while I was free," Sam bit out, regret thrumming through him at the missed opportunity.

"Thought we weren't doing the suicide -murder pact thing," Dean icily returned. "Cause rushing Grant? It would have been nothing short of suicide, Sam. I know he comes off as squeaky clean but I've seen him in action. He doesn't bluff, ever."

"So now we sit on our hands waiting for him to decide our fate?!" Sam shot back, hating the helplessness of it all.

"I'm open to suggestions, Sam," Dean returned, his voice calm, even warm, because he didn't want Sam to think this was all on him, saving them, getting them out of this. "We're all handcuffed, you're weak after the panic room, Bobby's in a wheelchair and I'm blind. It's not exactly us at our best."

Sam exhaled in tired defeat. "Yeah, I know. But I had a chance and I didn't take it."

"A chance for what, Sam? To get yourself killed?" Dean demanded, voice rising with his fear. "Maybe you've forgotten but I'm not OK with that. I'm never going to be OK with that."

Sam smiled in spite of their situation, his affectionate gaze settling on his brother.

"Sam? You hearing me?" Dean prodded, hated the quiet almost more than the darkness.

"I hear you, Dean," Sam replied with soft fondness in his tone that he hoped Dean could detect. '_I always hear you_. _It's the listening part I've screwed up on_.' "I think the whole neighborhood heard you. Just because you can't see doesn't mean I've turned deaf and you need to shout."

"Bite me, Sam," Dean threw back but his tone was softer than it had been. He smirked as his brother's quiet snort drifted over to him.

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When Grant raised the water glass toward Dean's lips, Dean defiantly pulled his head back. "Dude, I'm seriously not thirsty or hunger. Maybe it's the whole death sentence hanging over my head that's made my appetite take a dose dive, or maybe it's the thought of being fed by some guy that, I have to admit, I'm not feeling real friendly toward right now or maybe it's just your culinary skills that turn my stomach." But in truth, even the smell of food, even Bobby's awesome dishes, had turned his stomach the past couple of days…since Famine walked into his part of town or was it even before that. Either way him and food weren't on speaking terms…and honestly he didn't care. Eating was just another thing that he didn't have to use up his ebbing energy on.

Sam would have sighed if it wouldn't have been a sign of weakness that Devon, if not Grant, would pounce on. Dean not eating, refusing to even let Grant help him to a sip of water? It was more about a crushed spirit than a willful defiance. He and Bobby hadn't turned down the drink or the bite of the sandwich Grant had offered with a genuine show of concern before he had moved onto Dean. Dean who continued to flatly refuse both, regardless that Sam had made his own plea. "Dean at least drink something," which was met with an even more stoic refusal of "Not thirsty."

Conceding another defeat, Grant stood up, took the refused peace offering back to the kitchen and sat them down on the table with a frustrated clank. Then he re-entered the room where his captives sat. "It shouldn't be long now."

"You want to tell us the mystery guest. I mean it's not like I'll be able to see them coming anyway," Dean pressed, his gut churning at the nearing approach of Grant's ace in the hole.

"No, I don't think so."

"What's it going to prove anyway?" Bobby quietly asked, glad Devon wasn't there to flame Grant's fire of justice. "You want to know how Pamela and Ellen and Jo died? They died doing what they believed in. They chose to stand by Dean and Sam because they believed in them."

"You weren't there, though, were you?" Grant challenged, voice quiet but sharp, eyes searing into the handicapped man's. "Even if you were, you would have traded their lives for the lives of the men you love like sons. I know where your loyalties lay, Bobby. I've always known, even when you didn't."

Bobby couldn't deny the man's perceptiveness. He had put and vowed to continue to put a truckload of people in their graves before he would ever bury either of his boys again. "Well then you know that whatever fate you decide for them, you best make it mine too," threat and devotion and recriminations vying for supremacy in his tone.

"Bobby, no!" Sam instantly objected, struggling against his handcuffs at the notion that Bobby would be punished for their mistakes.

"He's not part of this!" Dean thundered, also straining, for the first time in hours, to be free.

"The heck I'm not!" Bobby shouted at Dean before returning his focus onto Grant. "Whatever I've done, I've done for them and I don't regret it. None of it," he earnestly declared, daring Grant to doubt his conviction, to think that he regretted accepting the Winchesters boys into his heart.

But Dean's voice rose in anger. "It's our fault, all of this. Not his!"

"What did I say!!" Bobby roared, shooting looks to both of his "sons", knew that Dean didn't need to read the warning in his eyes to know it existed by the tone of his voice. "Now shut up, the both of you."

"Yes sir," came the in-synch reply from the brothers.

For all their bickering, for all the rumors about Bobby's paralysis somehow linked to Dean, these three men were family. And they wouldn't give up on their family. Not even with their last breath, Grant realized with something akin to respect and envy.

Turning back to Grant, Bobby lowly accused, "You're as unworthy to judge them as the system that put you in jail for killing that vampire. No matter what your source has to say, Dean and Sam have been trying to save the world, not condemn it. And they would have done anything, anything to not lose Pamela, Ellen or Jo. You saying otherwise? It's not only an insult to these men but it's an insult to the three women we all loved."

But Grant didn't react to Bobby's words. He simply walked out of the room, stone faced. Refused to let Bobby's words sway him, to put the situation in the same light that his own incarceration had occurred. He knew the way of hunting, he was as fair and as informed a judge as they were likely to get. And more than that, he knew the three woman, had indeed loved them in his own fashion and he was going to make sure justice was done for them.

"Well that was about as useful as trying to talk one of idiots out of concocting a foolish plans," Bobby grumbled under his breath.

"Bobby…" Sam began, his voice soft as his eyes met Bobby's across the room. "What you said….Thanks. For all of it."

"Didn't seem to mean a hill of beans to him," Bobby exhaled in a defeated sigh.

"But it meant a lot to us," Dean countered let that sink in a beat before he said, "Maybe you did grow some woman parts after all."

"Ah shut up you idgit," Bobby groused but he winked at Sam. They might be backed into a corner but they weren't quitting, not yet. Not when they were still able to stand together.

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Dean's head suddenly tilted to the left as he heard the knock on the front door. "Guess its show time."

Sitting up further in his chair, Sam strained to see the door, to see the witness for the prosecution. "Oh crap…" he exhaled as the door opened and a man stepped into Bobby's kitchen.

The fear and dread in his brother's tone sent matching emotions coursing through Dean. "Oh crap isn't really what I want to hear right about now Sam."

"It's the guy from Buffalo, New York," Sam clarified, remembered being tied to a motel chair, about to get his head blown off by the man's hunting partner.

"What guy?! Sam, I'm blind here! Little more description please!" Dean hissed. Reacting to the fear in Sam's voice, he tried to wiggle out of the cuffs again, wondered if he should try and break his wrist.

"The hunter that was with the guy who wanted to kill me," Sam hissed back, wished he could hear the conversation in the other room even as he saw Grant heartily shake the man's hand.

"That doesn't help!" Dean irritably growled, contemplating slamming his wrist into the back of the chair and hoping the bone gave way.

Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down, Sam turned to Dean, knew that he was freaking Dean out and that wasn't helping anybody. "You know when I got the cursed rabbit foot and those two guys had me tied to the chair in the motel before you showed up, did your "I'm Batman" crap?"

"Hey, it wasn't crap. It was awesome. But yeah, blond guy had a gun to your head and the dark haired guy with the goatee was with him." As if he could forget seeing someone pointing a gun at Sam's head, finger on the trigger. "One of them is here, now?! Is it the guy that came after us with Gordon?" Not forgetting either the panic that he had felt when he and Sam had turned the corner in that alley to find Gordon and his pal shooting at them. Both times had been close, too close.

"No, it's the dark haired guy with the goatee," Sam confirmed, eyes swinging back to the kitchen and the gathered hunters before turning back to Dean. "He's going to say Gordon was right about me, that he knew I was something other than human."

"Alright, calm down, Sam. Just calm down," Dean soothed because he couldn't stand to hear Sam coming apart. He never could.

"Calm down?! Dean we're at Grant's mercy here and now he's got some guy who will tell him everything he wants to hear," Sam snapped back, uncertain how Dean could think this wasn't a fine time to panic. "Crap, here they come," he announced before he fell silent, watched warily as the man walked into the room at Grant's heels. '_At least this guy's testimony might get the blame off Dean, lay it totally on my shoulders.' _And if there was anything good to think about, it was that. Dean surviving even if he didn't.

"I think you know Creedy, Sam," Grant introduced, a smug twinkle in his eyes.

"Yeah, I tend to remember the people who try to kill me," Sam answered with a swaggering smile like Dean would. Sometimes cocky belligerence had its place. He felt his smile become genuine when he spared a look to Dean and saw a smirk gracing his brother's features. If no one else appreciated his attitude, it didn't matter. He had earned Dean's approval and that mattered more than anything.

"Creedy, we need to know what Gordon knew about Sam, about the Devil's Gate opening, about all the crap hitting the fan right now. Do you know how Sam ties into all of that?" Grant addressed the other hunter, watched the man's eyes flicker to Sam, thought he saw a hue of shame in Creedy's gaze.

"Like I said on the phone, Grant, I didn't know Gordon Walker. Kubrick, he was Walker's friend. I was just backing up Kubrick," Creedy replied, eyes skittering away from Sam's, heart racing in his chest. Whatever he had envisioned he would be walking into, it wasn't this. Bobby and the two Winchesters tussled up like turkeys, Sam's brother sitting there with a bandage covering his eyes and Singer looking pissed enough to walk on water, let alone walk out of his chair and finish him off right then and there. No, this wasn't what he bargained on when Grant had called him up asking about Gordon and Sam Winchester. '_You sure? Come on you knew it wasn't going to be a cookout, burgers on the grill. It's why you agreed to come in person to say your peace. Don't chicken out now.'_

Leaning casually against the wall, Devon supplied more than questioned, "And Kubrick and Gordon, they were convinced Sam Winchester was going to have a part to play in the war we're in right now, right? That the only way to head it off at the pass was to kill Sam." He hadn't mentioned all of this to Grant before, knew the man was too constricted by his moral code to accept the validation of rumors. And the rumors at first, they seemed ludicrous, until they were neck deep in apocalyptic signs, until their numbers were dwindling by the leaps and bounds.

Creedy looked to Devon and then back to Grant. "Gordon believed that, got Kubrick believing it too." Then his eyes shifted to Sam Winchester, watched as the boy's eyes met his steadily, fear in their depths like a couple years back when he had met him. But there was also a courage that hadn't been there before, an acceptance. "But I don't have cause against him. Him or his brother." He saw Sam Winchester's eyes widen in shock before he turned to Grant. "We were going to kill him, Kubrick was and I was going to stand there and let him. But his brother, Dean, he showed up and he …disarmed us," he stumbled over the explanation, still couldn't explain his own clumsiness or Dean Winchester's ability to throw a pen into Kubrick's gun barrel. He stepped closer to Grant, wanted the other man to read him loud and clear. "And you know what they did to me? To Kubrick? Nothing. They let us live, Grant. We were going to kill Sam and he and his brother let us live. How many other hunters you know would let me walk away after that, huh? You know of even one?!"

The question blindsided Grant, left him grasping for an answer. If someone tried to kill him, if someone tried to kill one of his family members…Mercy wasn't what came to mind. Murder was. And yet, the two men that he accused of murdering people that they had no grievances against, strangers, who he accused of murdering women who vowed their allegiance to them wholeheartedly, they had not done murder when it was most deserved. Had shown mercy when it was least deserved, when it was even utter foolishness to let their enemy stand.

"Well they didn't show Kubrick or Gordon the mercy they showed you," Devon said darkly, wondered how Grant could think a looney tune like Creedy's word was worth listening to when the facts spoke for themselves.

But Creedy turned to Devon, addressed the younger man's accusation. "Gordon was past the point of deserving mercy."

Stepping into Creedy's personal space, Devon demanded, "And what does that mean?"

Creedy didn't cower under the young hotheaded hunter's glower. "I saw Gordon's remains. He had been turned."

Devon stilled at the news. "Turned into what?"

"Vampire. Saw his fangs myself," Creedy stated, eyes holding steady with Devon's. "And it makes some sick sense that he killed Kubrick once he turned. Kubrick might have let him get close but once he realized what Gordon was..Well, Kubrick was a black and white hunter. He saw a vampire, no matter who it had once been, he woulda killed it."

Stepping to Devon's side, Grant earned Creedy's eye contact. "You really think Gordon killed Kubrick?" Grant quietly prodded, his stern tone ensuring that the man knew that there would be a penalty for being caught in a half truth.

"Yeah, less you think one of these boys can rip a man's guts out of his body?" Creedy returned, a bite to his tone at the cross examination. Crap, he was a fine hunter is his own right, knew a supernatural monster's handiwork. And he also knew when good men were about to be executed by a witch hunt.

Shifting his stance, Creedy braced himself for the consequences that would come out of the decision he was about to make. Taking a deep breath, he plunged ahead. "So I don't know if these boys had a hand in all the crap that's going on like a page out of Revelations, but I know they aren't murderers. That they wouldn't have intentionally unleashed stuff that they and their daddy spent their whole lives hunting down and eliminating. It don't make a grain of sense and you know that Grant," hoping the other man could stop fueling his grief and see the forest for the trees.

Devon snarled, "That's a lot of conviction for a man who usually can't decide even what to eat."

Refusing to let Devon goad him to anger, Creedy retorted calmly, "I've been hunting longer than you, kid. I know that what you do when push comes to shove, that's the heart of a man. These two," and he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate Sam and Dean, "they had ever right to kill me but they didn't. And for that, I owe them my life." Then, in a surprising move, he pulled out his gun, pointed it at Devon, because he knew that, contrary to what Grant wanted to believe, Devon was the real threat in the room. "I'm not going to almost make the same mistake again, stand around and let an innocent kid get murdered. Now uncuff them."

Devon snorted as if he didn't take Creedy's threat seriously but his eyes didn't move from the other hunter's even as his words were for Grant. "Great thinking, Grant. Bringing in Creedy. He's off his meds."

"You're willing to die protecting them?" Grant asked, half in awe and half in disbelief.

"Guess so," Creedy announced with a shrug of his shoulders. "I swore I'ld never become something worse than what I hunt and I almost crossed that line by killing Sam before. I'm steering clear of that path from here on out."

Though he couldn't see what was happening around him, Dean's ears were burning up with the strain of putting a face with each speaker. In a whisper he asked his brother, "Wait. Am I hearing this right? He's siding with us?"

"Ah yeah, seems like it," Sam whispered back in awe, eyes still fixed on Creedy in shock. This so wasn't how he saw things playing out. Not that he was complaining. At all.

The Winchesters weren't the only ones overwhelmed at Creedy's loyalty.

Grant suddenly felt that Creedy's fierce loyalty to the Winchester, coupled with Bobby's and the knowledge that Ellen and Jo and even Pamela had willingly joined up with the two men told him more than he had wanted to know. Told him what he had been denying ever since news of Pamela's death reached him in jail.

As if for the first time, with clear vision, Grant looked to Dean, who sat there handcuffed to a chair, bleeding from knife wounds, blinded by pepper spray. Then he looked to Sam, who watched Creedy with surprise and raw gratitude These men had not bamboozled some of the smartest people he knew into following them, they had done something much harder, they had earned the respect, loyalty and love of those people. They were good men, men maybe even worthy of the sacrifice Pamela and Ellen and Jo had made. Maybe. Were certainly not murderers, were not callous hunters who would use others for bait so that they could survive, could slip away to hide. '_And I almost killed them. Pamela, you're looking down on me and cursing aren't you. Even if they don't allow that type of language where you are, you're furious with me, at what I almost did. I should have trusted you, trusted your judgment. Should have known that, as pretty as you probably found the Winchester boys, it was their hearts that kept you coming back to help them.'_

"Uncuff them," Grant commanded the two men that Devon had hired, feeling a weight lifting in his soul as the words were said, as his decision was made.

But the two men didn't move besides turning their attention to Devon, to the man that was holding out the rest of their pay until the job was done.

Devon spun to face Grant, his face red with fury. "Whoa whoa whoa! No one's uncuffing them! Creedy said nothing but some hearts and flowers because he's grateful to be alive."

"Yeah, he's alive because the Winchesters let him live. You don't show mercy to an enemy like that and turn around and sell out other hunters, especially hunters that were loyal to you. Creedy's willing to die for them and he barely knows either of them. You really think that Jo would have done any less..the way she felt about them. Or Ellen?"

Devon ran a hand through his hair, couldn't believe that Grant was backing down. "They got them killed because they were reckless!"

Bobby couldn't let that go unchallenged. "You saying that Jo and Ellen were reckless too? Because they were there, in on the planning of the whole thing. They all did the best that they could. It just…"

"Wasn't enough," Sam solemnly admitted, hated that they had lost people that he had come to love, that Dean had come to love. That whatever ragtag family he and Dean patched together, it seemed its members always ended up being casualties in the war that they were embroiled in. Even he and Dean had been casualties more than once.

"If we could undo it, play the hand a different way, we would. Trust me, we would," Dean earnestly admitted, had countless times tried to figure out what he had done wrong, what he should have changed. If he had Castiel drop him back a year ago, what changes he would try to make, how he would rewrite history. But he knew the hard way, that the past couldn't be redone, he had learned that lesson with his parents..twice. The past was set and there was no changing it. He only prayed that the future that Zachariah showed him could be changed. It had to be changed. Or else there wasn't much point to any of this, of surviving this only to end up there.

"Shut up. Shut Up!" Devon shouted, pacing the room, hand again nervously swishing through his hair, uncaring that Creedy's gun tracked his movement. He halted in front of Grant, spat, "I knew you wouldn't have the stones to see this through! I knew it! You talk the talk but you've never killed the beast when it's back to looking all vulnerable and human, when it pleads with you to spare its miserable life. Then you can't do it, you never could. Then it's up to me to finish them off. Better to soil my soul than yours, right. Guess this is no different." And then, without forewarning, Devon grabbed one of Bobby's footstools, spun around and launched it at Creedy.

Creedy raised his hands instinctively to protect himself. Even as the stool connected with Creedy's shoulder, Devon tackled him around the waist, taking them back to the ground. Sending a right cross into Creedy's jaw and a jab into his gut, Devon, taking advantage of the other man's pain, snagged the gun from the dark haired man's grip. Climbing to his feet, Devon brandished the gun like a prize as he looked down to Creedy. "Maybe you're been hunting too long, old man. Time to hang up the holy water," he gloated before he stepped back, used the gun to motion for the man to get to his feet.

Grant had wanted to intervene, would have if Devon's men hadn't pulled their guns and leveled them at him. With his jaw clenched, he snarled at Devon, "This was your plan the whole time, wasn't it? To murder them, no matter what I found out."

Devon couldn't keep the smug smile off his lips. "You taught me to have contingency plan after contingency plan, great mentor." He stepped close to Grant, his eyes boring into the older man's. "You also taught me to kill evil, you remember that? Guess this is where the student becomes the teacher."

Turning his back on Grant, Devon came to a halt between Sam and Dean and crouched down to be eye level at least with Sam. "You know, at first I really had my doubts that I could go through with this. I mean, killing humans, it's not usually part of the job." He sidled closer to Dean, tauntingly rested his hand that held the gun on the man's leg. "Bet after awhile you can convince yourself that it's just a shapeshifter you're killing, right Dean? That getting other people killed, hey it's just part of the job, a sucky part but oh well you get to live another day. See what Grant believes and even poor Creedy wants to believe is that you didn't screw up." Then his eyes shifted to Sam. "That you couldn't have been dumb enough to kick off the end of the world by making bad choice after bad choice. That some human _being_, what we've all be fighting and dying to protect, didn't go and turn the tables on us, make us the hunted." Devon looked to the ground a moment before he looked again to Sam. "But you admitted it and they didn't want to hear it, you both did. But my hearing's fine…and so is my sense of justice."

"Justice," Dean scoffed, hated that the kid was touching him, that Devon thought that this was the worst that he and Sam had faced. "You wouldn't know justice if it bit you on the butt. Justice would be killing the thing that killed my mom and it being over, not the start of something worse. Justice would be a victory without it costing us everything, every time. Justice would be Jo and Ellen and Pamela here sharing a drink with us instead of you here thinking that you know what making hard choices is all about. Don't pretend you know what justice is."

Unable to contend with Dean's words, Devon stood up, shaken at the glimpse the other hunter had given of his version of justice. His eyes flickered to Grant, as if the man would give him guidance now but he only saw anger there at his perceived betrayal. He almost startled as one of his men spoke.

"Ball's in your court kid. How do you want this to end?"

Looking from Sam to Dean, reading the fury in Sam's eyes and in Dean's posture, he knew that he couldn't back down. Had to do what he had set out to do, even if Grant thought of it as a betrayal. He would protect Grant from blindly following the Winchesters like Jo had. He would ensure that more hunters didn't die out of misplaced allegiance to the two brothers. With his hatred filled eyes fixed on Dean, he contemptuously answered, "It ends for them the same way it did for Jo. Bloody."

Pulling his knife from its leather sheath, Devon tightened his fingers around the hilt. Then he advanced toward Dean.

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TBC

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Thanks for the lovely support for last chapter! Each single review encouraged me to keep going with this story. And thank you to anyone still hanging out with this story!

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	6. Chapter 6

Honoring the Dead

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.

Author's Note: Since I left you all in such a cruel cliffhanger and I got such words of encouragement to continue (I think my life would be in danger if I didn't) I've decided to give you more of what I have written. I had thought this would be only a 6 chapter story, but at Marion12's nice words about this tale of "long may it last" I hoping that you guys don't mind if it went another chapter after this one.

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Chapter 6

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Pulling his knife from its leather sheath, Devon tightened his fingers around the hilt. Then he advanced toward Dean.

Dean didn't need his sight to know Devon was stepping closer to him, was going to make certain that he died painfully. After all, he had lived his whole life with threat of death hanging over his head. He knew the twinge it put down his spine, knew the steel trap that slammed in his head, shutting down his emotions, usually leaving him defiant when others might offer up a plead for their lives. But defiance wasn't rising up in him this time, acceptance was. Famine had said he was dead inside, and he couldn't deny that claim, then or now. So what did it matter if the rest of him perished too? There was even a spark of relief washing over him. It would be over. No more fighting, no more of his mistakes hurting others, no more losing the people that he loved.

And this time when he arrived in hell, he wouldn't spend time whining that he didn't deserve his fate, that he didn't belong there. He would accept the agony for what it was: his penance for the life he had lived, the lives he had cost, the evil that was in him.

He got it now, why God hadn't answered his prayers from a few nights ago, hadn't helped him. You didn't help the enemy, didn't lesson the load of the one that was undermining all your hard work. You didn't save the son that failed you at every turn. '_I'm sorry. I know I'm unworthy of Your help but save Sam. For all his actions, he meant to do the right thing, wanted the right outcome. He's prayed to You for years…been loyal. That should count for something, his faith in You.'_

Watching Devon head for his brother, knife in hand, Sam yanked on the cuffs, willed his bones to break, for the chair backing to give way, for just a _drop_ of his dark power to still be there so that he could intercept Devon, could save Dean. But he couldn't get free, couldn't throw Devon away from Dean with a jerk of his head. He was helpless, weak, useless. He choked, his throat too thick with a sob to allow the thousand pleas screaming through his head to be heard. Though he knew they would fall on deaf ears. Devon's mind was made up. He had enough of the puzzle pieces to see the choices that they had made, that had led them to the end of the world. But he didn't understand the intent, that he and Dean, they had never meant this to happen, any of it. Had done everything, no matter how evil it had turned out to be, to save lives, not lose them. And yes, it was sometimes born out of the most selfish of desires: to save only each other. '_And after all that, I'm going to lose Dean all over again.'_ And it was strange, to hope that Devon didn't delay in turning his knife on him once Dean was dead, to feel grateful that, at least this time, he wouldn't have to live without his brother. He almost snorted, the doc in the psychiatric hospital had no idea about how dangerously co-dependent he was with his brother. But he wouldn't change it, wouldn't have had it any other way. Didn't know how he had even breathed when he had parted way with Dean a couple months back.

It was another cruel twist of fate that he had not spent the past few days with Dean. Because of his addiction, his failings, he had, instead, been sequestered away in the panic room. Alone. There he had had only hallucinations of his brother to keep him company. But those versions of Dean disowned him, hated him, left him. Were no more real than the way Ruby had manipulated him into seeing his own brother as a weakness, as a roadblock to how strong he could become, of what he could achieve if he left Dean behind, forged his own path. All of it had been a lie, he could see that now, could acknowledge how wrong it felt, the blood coursing through his veins, how devastating it was, seeing that look in Dean's eyes of disappointment when he unleashed his power. But it was more than that. There was fear in Dean's green eyes, of him, of what he could do, of what he might do next.

And the way Dean looked at him in the restaurant with Famine, it was ingrained in Sam's mind, Dean fearing him, heartbroken as he seemingly betrayed him again. And with Dean's eyes covered, with his brother unable to see, there would be no shared look between them now. Would be no do over, no kinder replacement for the memory of pain in the green eyes that he knew so well. He ached to make amends.

Swallowing, he began, "Dean…" his voice hoarse, tight with emotions that he didn't care were screaming of his grief, his fear, of his love for his brother. He had decided that his last words, they wouldn't be threats, wouldn't be pleas. No, they would be words that he needed to say to his brother, were goodbye because, everything they wanted to tell each other? It couldn't be conveyed in one final moment of eye contact, not this time.

But Sam's next word was lost as the three tall windows behind Devon exploded, projecting glass and pieces of wooden pane into Bobby's living room. Dean, Devon, Grant and Bobby were bombarded with the debris.

Recognizing the shattering of glass, remembering having a shower of this sort on two very distinct occasions, Dean wondered if Cas had arrived, had simply spoken…or if Michael had come to ask him one final time to be his vessel. To give him the choice to die making a last stand to save the world or to die condemned for the sins he had committed. His heart pounded with the choice before him, uncertain, for the first time, what his answer would be. His conviction was nearly gone on what his answer _should_ be.

Devon and Grant hit the deck, not so much at the explosion's concussion but out of instincts that told them to duck. Finding himself on level playing ground with Devon, Grant was about to scramble to unarm his protégé. But Devon regained his composure as fast as Grant did. Though he had dropped the knife in the confusion, Devon curled his hand around the handle of his gun the next second. Pulling the gun free, he cocked it and leveled it at Grant, stopped his friend's advance cold. Lying on the floor, facing each other, their eyes tossed back threat and recrimination.

Across the room, Creedy was taking advantage of the distraction provided, slammed into the thinner of Devon's two men into the wall, sent a right cross and an uppercut to the man's jaw. Snagging the gun from the man's limp grasp, he let the slumping man slide to the ground. Turning, ready to concentrate on taking down Devon's other mercenary who stood closest to Sam, he found that the man was being delivered a brutal blow to the back of his head by the butt of a rifle.

Coldly stepping over the man now crumpled unconscious at his feet, Rufus Turner aimed the muzzle of his rifle down to Devon and drew closer to his prey. He smiled without a hint of warmth when Devon's head snapped up and his wide eyes found the new threat in the room. "Hey, Kid. Can't say I didn't see this coming," his eyes sliding to Grant's, an 'I told ya so' in his hardened gaze before he looked back to Devon, who was still pointing his gun at Grant. Stepping closer, Rufus let his rifle muzzle hover inches from the space between Devon's eyes. "The only reason I'm not pulling this trigger right now is out of respect for Grant. But if he gives me the go ahead.." his smile widened, "That'll make my day."

Dean could identify the sound of flesh hitting flesh, knew that the explosion, whether it was from Michael or Cas or some other source had been taken advantage of by the captives in the room. Anxiously, he waited for indications on who was winning, who would come out on top, even as he strained to hear the flapping of wings that meant Cas was there or Michael was coming to take him once and for all. He was in no way prepared to hear a familiar, gruff voice lined with menace. Rufus?! Rufus was here, now?! It didn't make a bit of sense…and yet he would take it. He was so glad to hear the man's grumpy words spit out at Devon that he bowed his head in exhausted relief. If Rufus got them out of this he would owe him a _case_ of Johnny Walker Blue.

Devon, having had run-ins with Rufus before, never of a pleasant nature even when he was protected by his status of being Grant's newest protégé, knew that the old hunter would indeed enjoy blowing his head off. That Turner thought it was a long time coming. In defeat, he tossed the gun away, did it before Grant could tell Rufus to shoot him, decided that his betrayal was worthy of death. Because it didn't seem to matter that his actions had been about opening Grant's eyes, about doing what was right, that he had preferred Grant stand with him instead of against him. He should have remembered that Grant always catalogued it as an act of aggression, took it personally, if someone took a side that wasn't his.

Now unarmed, Devon swung his look back to Grant. And instantly he knew he was right. Grant was taking this personally, would never see what he could so clearly. Not now. Not after his actions. Grant would never see the Winchesters for what they were, simply because he had sided against them when Grant had joined allegiance with them. Whatever ties he and Grant had once had, they were gone now. Most likely forever. The loss spiked through him and he heaped the blame for it where it belonged, where it all belonged: on Dean and Sam Winchester. And they were going to walk away clean. '_And I'm not. I'll be surprised if I walk away at all_.' Because, for all their talk about mercy, he knew the Winchesters wouldn't let him live. Couldn't. Not after this, not after all he knew about them, about what they had done, the part they had played in the deaths of so many hunters, of the millions things that said that they were instrumental in kicking off the end of the world.

Tracking Rufus as he moved toward Devon, Sam couldn't help but look to Bobby, wondering if the older man knew Rufus would be stopping by, had hoped all along that his old friend's arrival would spare them. But the shock in Bobby's eyes told him that Rufus' visit was as much a surprise to him as anyone. Some would say it was just a lucky break but Sam didn't believe in coincidences, good or bad. And he was nearly out of faith in the notion of miracles…almost.

Climbing to his feet, Grant gave a grateful nod to Rufus before he grabbed Devon's arm and yanked the man he had thought of as younger brother to his feet. "Keys to uncuff them," he demanded, almost daring Devon to make a move, to defy him in just another simple way. It would make it easier, what he knew had to be done if Devon turned on him. But Devon slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the keys to the handcuffs, held them out to Grant. Taking the proffered keys, Grant tossed them to Rufus, who caught them with ease before stepping back behind the chair that Sam was bound to.

At the prospect of being free, Sam couldn't dampen the need searing through his every nerve ending to inflict damage on Devon, to recompense the man for hurting Dean, for _blinding _him, if only temporarily. The Sam that had spared Gordon's life even after he had kidnapped Dean, had spared Kubrick's life though he had threatened to kill him, that Sam was gone, was replaced by someone who knew exactly how it felt to watch his brother die, to realize that no one's life was more important to him than Dean's. That, to let an enemy stand, to let someone who wanted to take Dean away from him, walk away, it was putting him at risk of losing his brother. And that type of risk, though he was forced to face it each day, on every hunt, he refused to endure it from a known source, from someone human, from someone that could be eliminated.

It was bitter irony that Creedy had taken their side because he had had mercy on him for such a trespass in the past. And Sam knew that should mean he should have mercy now…but he couldn't. Not when he saw the hatred in Devon's eyes, especially when they landed on his brother. His mercy could no longer extend to those who threatened his family. As the first cuff clicked loose, he poised to be free, to reach Devon, to take out the threat to his brother. And then the handcuffs were off and he was free. The rage, the hatred, it easily overtook his exhaustion as he stalked for Devon, shoving Grant out of the way. He growled as he struck Devon with a roundhouse blow, knocking the younger hunter to the ground. And he followed him down, pressed his knee into the man's gut and plummeted him with blows from his left and then his right hand, the past hours of fear finding a release.

There were an onslaught of voices in the room, Grant's and Bobby's, even Rufus', but he couldn't hear the words, didn't care what they were saying, what logic they were trying to use to stay his hand upon Devon. But then he heard Dean's voice, a voice he wished to God that he had listened to in that church as he was trying to kill Lilith.

"Sam, don't!" Dean ordered, knew that Sam was following through on what he himself wanted to do: beat Devon to a pulp. No, kill Devon. Have some kind of final victory over a foe. Wanted to win for a change.

Sam stilled, breathing hard, Devon, limp and bloody under his hands, the man's fearful eyes looking for mercy, leniency. From him. "He was going to kill you." That was evidence enough that Devon should die.

And Dean knew that he felt like Sam did, that the hunter should die for threatening his brother's life. But he also knew that he didn't want more weight on Sam's soul. His brother was lugging around enough without killing a human who just happened to be perceptive enough to see how they were at fault for the apocalypse. "He's not the first…he won't be the last," he lightly pointed out, knew that it was the truth. "If we take out everyone that has a beef with us, then who needs a little thing like plagues to greatly decrease the world's population."

In spite of everything, Sam snorted in laughter at Dean's comparison, felt the rage begin to slip away. Roughly pushing off of Devon, he stood up, towered over the downed man. "Fine but he's not just walking away, Dean. He's not getting the chance to come after us again," he resolutely said, would concede to not killing Devon but would not condone the idea that he would be free to hurt them again. Could hurt Dean again.

"He won't," Grant vowed, stepping beside Devon, giving the downed man a light kick and a hand gesture ordering him to his feet. When Devon complied, stood at his side, Grant met Sam's eyes, saw the doubt there. "I promise, he won't be a further threat to you, " he guaranteed.

"I say we let Grant have him, Sam," Dean allowed, Grant having re-earned some of his trust.

With his brother's words, Sam shoved Devon toward Grant, relinquishing the man's fate into the other hunter's hands. He had more important things to focus on. Turning around, he saw that Rufus had gotten Dean's handcuffs off.

Whatever relief Devon had felt when Sam Winchester had heeded his brother's order, it vanished as he caught the look in Grant's eyes. Grant had been ready and willing to kill the Winchesters for killing other hunters. And now it seemed that punishment was slated for him, because he had contemplated that same crime. That whatever bond he and Grant had, it would not spare him Grant's judgment.

Sensing that Dean was about to stand up, Sam slid his hand around Dean's right bicep, "Let me help you," plea and statement in the words, ready to help his brother to his feet and guide him to where ever he wanted to go. But then a cry of pain had him spinning back around in time to see Devon shove by Grant, run for the kitchen. Realized that Devon had sliced Grant across the cheek with a sharp of glass he had probably picked up while he was on the floor.

"Devon!" Grant roared.

Dean blindly reached out for his brother as the familiar hands deserted him, wanted to grab onto his brother and not let him go. But his hands only met air, could sense the absence of his brother even before Bobby yelled, "Sam don't!"

Watching Sam fly past him, a dark set to his jaw, Bobby knew that Devon had gambled for his life and probably lost. That whatever fate Grant was going to exact on him would be nothing compared to what Sam wanted to do to him now that he had even rejected the mercy he had given to him, though undeserved. That Sam would rationalize that whatever repayment he wanted to give to Devon for hurting his brother, for having every intention of killing his brother was now justified. That Devon had thrown back in his face the mercy that Sam had given to him at Dean's request. It was all the proof in the world that Devon couldn't be trusted, that he wouldn't stop coming after the brothers, would react differently than the Winchesters, would not let an enemy that wanted him dead, live.

"Sam!" Dean shouted, coming to his feet, taking a few steps forward in the darkness, hands reaching out as if he could catch Sam, stop him. But with his next step, his foot tripped over something and he crashed to the floor.

Swiping angrily at the blood on his cheek, Grant stalked for the door, Rufus snidely announced, "Don't worry, Devon can't go far. Not in his jeep or your car. And the guy he had out front, he's tied up by the gate." Grant had enough good graces to nod his thanks at Rufus, for the man's forethought and then he was opening the door. He ducked back into the house as a gun shot sounded ominously.

Dean was attempting to get his hands under himself, to climb at least to his knees when he heard the gunshot. His brother's name came out as a croak, "Sam?" Then it became a desperate shout, "Sam!"

Heart thudding in his chest, Bobby watched Grant share a glance with Creedy before bolting out the door, then Creedy followed Grant's lead, was only a few steps behind the other man. Dean's cry for his brother, it nearly stole the last of his breath from him. He couldn't go to the maybe wounded Sam outside and turning, seeing Dean on the ground, he couldn't go to the elder, blinded Winchester either. He had never cursed his handicapped this vilely before. Did it now, not for his sake but for the sake of the sons he loved, at his inability to help _them_.

Stunned, Bobby watched Rufus crouch down beside Dean. Rufus spoke before Bobby could utter a threat of what he would do if his friend spoke one wrong word to Dean.

"Easy, kid, easy," Rufus gently said, light hand coming to rest on Dean's back.

"Where's Sam? Is he OK?" Dean demanded but his voice shook, was vulnerable and close to despair.

"Grant and Creedy are checking on him," Bobby said, wished it could be reassurances he was offering up but he wouldn't lie to Dean, wouldn't do that to the man he loved like a son.

But Dean's litany continued, more pitiable than before as hope faded with each minute that passed, "Where's my bother? Where's Sam? Take me to Sam!" Blindly he pushed himself into a seated position, reached to his right, for Rufus, found the man's coat and coiled his hands in the fabric.

Rufus shared a look with Bobby, uncertain what to do. He could see the hurt, the fear in his friend's eyes, knew that Bobby was just as torn up about Sam's fate as Dean, was coming apart at the demands Dean was making for his brother, at the elder Winchester boy's vulnerability, not only of sight but of heart. He made the decision himself then, told Dean, "Just sit tight, kid."

But Dean shook his head, wouldn't sit on his butt while Sam was…might be… Loosening his grip on Rufus he tried to stand up, hated that Rufus gripped his shoulder, easily pressed him back to sit on the ground. He meant it to come out as a shout, as a demand that wasn't supposed to be refuted but his next words were more choked then ever. "I need to get to Sam. Where's Sam? Where's my brother?!"

Quickly crossing the room and dropping to his knees in front of his brother, Sam gently reassured, "I'm right here, Dean. I'm right here," heart twisting at the painful catch, need in his brother's tone, a tone he hadn't heard since they had been in that cabin, their father possessed and Dean shredded from the inside out. He reached out, put his hand upon Dean's right cheek, couldn't explain the joy he felt when Dean didn't recoil from his touch but leaned into it this time. "I'm right here and I'm not going anywhere, Dean," he promised, knew that he wasn't just saying it for the moment, that he meant it. No matter what, he wasn't leaving Dean again. They were a team and they were going to stay that way. But more than that, they were family and he wouldn't let them ever again pretend that they weren't. He would never deny again that the most precious thing that he owned was his brotherhood with Dean.

Dean bowed his head in relief, in the promise that Sam had never said before, had never meant before. He didn't startle when he felt Sam press his head to his own, when Sam took their connection to another level. Screw it, they had earned the chick flick moment. Taking in a shaky breath, Dean slipped back into big brother mode, raised his head, asked, "You hurt? You hit?" even as he reached forward until his hand connected with Sam's body and he began to feel his brother's clothing for the stickiness of blood, for tears or rips or …holes.

Sam shook his head even as he said aloud, "No. Devon's a crappy shot." But he didn't arrest his brother's hand from continuing the search, the inspection.

"Where did he get a gun?" Bobby asked, hated that his voice was hoarse, showed that he wasn't unaffected by the brothers' touching reunion.

"His jeep. But the jeep wouldn't start," Sam replied, his eyes still fixed on Dean but Rufus' light smug laugh had him looking to the other man who now stood at their sides. "I take it you had something to do with his need for triple A?"

"Yup," Rufus gloated and then he walked away to the two thugs littering Bobby's living room floor, giving the Winchesters some privacy.

Finding no evidence of harm to his little brother, Dean's hand dropped, landed on Sam's leg. And he felt his relief dissipate the adrenaline that had kept him going, kept him upright, thought it weird the world could still feel like it was tilting when he couldn't see it.

Turning back from Rufus, Sam was just in time to see Dean start to topple to the left. "Dean!" Sam called out in worry, hands reaching out to snag his brother's shoulder, to keep his brother upright.

Reaching up, Dean found Sam's hand on his bicep gave it a pat, "I'm OK, Sam."

"Yeah, sure you are," Sam replied, humor in his tone at his brother's denials. Too tired himself to think about getting Dean to his feet, about them stumbling anywhere, he maneuvered a few inches forward and sat beside Dean's left side. Sliding his arm supportively behind his brother's back, he tugged Dean toward him and Dean willingly went, whole heartedly trusted that he would be there to lean on.

When Sam pulled, Dean capitulated, was too grateful that Sam was alive, was there, wanted anything to do with him, to worry about how weak he was being. His head came to rest against Sam's neck, felt wonderfully protected when his brother's chin settled onto the top of his head. "Devon?" he quietly asked, uncertain of their audience.

"Grant's got him," the words clipped, hateful, a dash of disapproval. Unconsciously he tightened his grip on Dean, pulled Dean a little closer.

Dean took the news that Devon was alive without much emotion, relief or disappointment too much effort. Sam was OK and that was all that mattered to him. Feeling the expansion and contraction of his brother's chest under his shoulder blade was better than any revenge.

They were alone in the living room for the moment. Rufus had roused Devon's two hired men and ushered them out the kitchen door and Bobby had rolled into the kitchen, but not before he gave a tender smile to Sam, nodded his head in approval.

"I wanted to kill Devon, Dean. Would have but…" he admitted but he broke off, swallowed, emotions still too raw to speak of nonchalantly.

"Sam we…are we…" Dean tried to ask, didn't want to have this conversation for ears other than Sam's.

Knowing his brother's thoughts, Sam reassured, "We're alone right now." He exhaled, loudly, like it was a breath he had been holding for hours, days. "I didn't kill Devon because I knew you didn't want me to. And I…I didn't feed on Famine's security team because you didn't want me to. What you want…it …it matters, to me. It gave me the strength to say no, even to Famine. At the motel, I wasn't strong enough to fight the need, not when I was alone, when you weren't with me. And I know…I know you have every right in the world to want to walk away, to ditch me like I've ditched you but…don't, Dean," his voice catching on the words, on the need that was so strong, stronger than the cravings of his addiction. "Please don't do that." Then he held his breath, knew that, his fate, his future, it was in his brother's hands, would be decided by his brother's reply to his plea.

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TBC

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Thanks so much for reading! One more chapter to go! Because, I figure that, if I break the boys I have to put them back together, right?

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


	7. Chapter 7

Honoring the Dead

Author: Cheryl W.

Disclaimer: I do not own Dean, Sam or any rights to Supernatural, nor am I making any profit from this story.

Summary: Under judgment for Pamela, Jo and Ellen's deaths, Dean and Sam struggle with how to honor the dead when their blood is on their hands. Directly follows MBV. No Slash.

Author's Note: Just so you're warned, this last chapter turned super long!

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Chapter 7

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With Sam's opening statement of "_I wanted to kill Devon, Dean. Would have but…_" Dean had tried to cut Sam off. He knew what his brother was leading up to and he couldn't hear those words from Sam. He couldn't bear for Sam to call him weak again, weak for forcing him to show an enemy like Devon mercy. "_I didn't kill Devon because I knew you didn't want me to. And I…I didn't feed on Famine's security team because you didn't want me to_." With that declaration from Sam, the last of Dean's breath was ripped out of him and he was left waiting for the condemnation, for Sam to level that accusation at him again, that he was holding him back, that he was incapable…no, too scared to make the hard decisions anymore.

He was in no way prepared for Sam's next words, "_What you wanted…from me…it …it mattered_.." And he believed Sam, heard the earnestness in his brother's tone. '_You have every right in the world to want to walk away, to ditch me like I've ditched you but…don't Dean. Please don't do that.'_

Dean wished he had his sight, that he could know this was Sam talking, not possessed Sam, not shapeshifter Sam, but Sam his brother. Because Sam asking him to stay? Sam had never asked that of him before, had instead always demonstrated that he didn't need him, had left him and threatened to leave him time and time again. Seemingly without a backward glance.

Yes, sure, Sam had protested their separation in a few ways. '_What? You're leaving? Are you leaving, Dean?' 'Please don't do anything until I get back, 'Just wait for me', 'I want back in'. _But those requests, they couldn't counter the piercing pain of his brother's other words. _'It's best if we go our separate ways'_, '_This isn't going to work, us, you and me together_', '_I went with Ruby to get away from you_.' It was so true that hurtful words, they stayed with you, washed away the kind ones like a hurricane force.

And Dean knew that, what Sam was asking from him, it wasn't just a promise to stay together. It went deeper than that, was a plea for forgiveness, for him to trust him again. Dean hated that he didn't know if he could give that to Sam, not right then. It should have been natural, easy to trust his brother, a relief to find Sam wanted him to stay, wanted them to be together. But he couldn't bare another round of hurt, of betrayal. He hurt so much already that he was sure that, if he left Sam fully back in and he let him down, him being "dead inside" would take on a whole new level. That the 2014 version of him, that "monster", would be nothing compared to the shell of a human being he would be if the fragile bond he and Sam were fighting to keep together shredded apart.

It was cowardly he knew, but he was grateful right then not to have his sight, to not see Sam's expectant look, see the worry gathering in his brother's eyes at his hesitation to give him the promise he wanted. The sudden new sounds in the house he greeted with relief, glad for the distraction.

Cursing the squeak of the kitchen door opening, Sam saw Grant and Creedy making their reappearance, none the worse for the wear. The voices of the two hunters carried throughout the house, invaded the private cocoon he had erected with Dean a moment before.

"Sounds like the gang's all here," Dean quirked, though his voice showed his physical and emotional strain. "Help me up," he ordered, didn't want to be vulnerable under Grant or Creedy's inspection. Well more vulnerable than he was being blinded, sliced up and previously tied to a chair.

Finding the strength in himself to meet his brother's needs, Sam pulled them both to their feet. Pinning Dean to his side, he ensured that Dean didn't waste his waning strength on bravado. If Grant or Creedy thought Dean was weak for simply being worn out after being blinded, beaten and knifed, they would have to take that up with him, not Dean.

But as Grant came to a stop before the two brothers, he wore a shamed expression instead of one of judgment. "I know sorry doesn't cut it, that whatever hate you have for Devon, you should have for me," he directed at Sam, saw the clench of the younger Winchester's jaw. He prepared for a blow…that didn't come. Spared an attack from that quarter, he turned to Dean, knew that, though the man was without his sight, he was still dangerous. "I should have trusted you, Dean. Should have known that you couldn't have changed that much from the man that I hunted with, who saved my life while risking his own. I guess I let my grief get the best of me. I know it's a poor excuse for almost killing you…"

"Grant, I get it," Dean cut in, didn't need to hear more of the hunter's apology. He knew about grief, about the revenge it spawned. He was a Winchester after all. "Losing Pamela and Ellen and Jo, knowing we were involved…I know how it looks. You had…"

"I should have known better," Grant cut in, knew that Dean Winchester was a fair man, was going to give him a pass when he didn't deserve it. "I'm a hunter, for Pete sake. I should know better than anyone that you can't take things in this life at face value, that how things appear aren't always how they are. I should have remembered what Pamela said about you, should have listened to her."

Dean swallowed, gut churning at what Pamela might have said about them, the men who had gotten her blinded, who had ultimately gotten her killed. His brother asked the question he couldn't bring himself to voice.

"What did she say about us?" Sam prodded, a breathlessness to his tone, both wanting and dreading the answer.

Facing Sam, Grant said, "That it wasn't your fault that she was blinded, that it was her own stubbornness that had caused it. That you two 'boys' were in things so deep that you needed all the help you could get. And when I asked her why that help had to keep coming from her, you know what she said?"

Sam shook his head and Dean stilled.

A real smile emerged on Grant's lips. "At first she asked 'Have you _seen _those boys?'" he chuckled, had accepted a long time ago that Pamela had an appreciation for gorgeous men, that their own relationship had been a ship passing in the night. He smiled wider as Sam and Dean blushed at the compliment. He sobered after a moment, knew that what she had said next, it should have been enough for him, should have had him joining up with the Winchesters instead of trying to sentence them to an execution. Leveling a serious look at Sam, he repeated Pamela's sentiments. "She said she had never felt more important than when she was helping you two. That, for the first time, she wasn't just a helpless instrument that the supernatural used but was a weapon in the fight against those powers."

Sam nearly choked on the breath trapped in his lungs. Pamela, for all her bluster, had actually chosen to help them, had done it because it felt right, gave her a chance to fight. That it mattered to her if she went down fighting. That it had maybe always mattered. That, since meeting them, she had become a hunter in her own way.

Dean regained his voice first. "Helpless is the last description I would have used for Pamela, with or without her sight. And what she did for us, how she helped us, whatever crap is going down right now in the world, she made sure it wasn't worse. Helped us hold back the tide. Without her…" Dean broke off, voice catching.

"We would both be dead," Sam quietly finished his brother's sentence, knew what Dean wanted to convey, that it matched his own convictions. "And a whole lot of other people would be too."

Grant felt tears burn in his eyes, could only nod his head. It was what Pamela would have given her life for: these brave, honorable men, for the lives of other people, for the cause of good. "I want to follow her example, offer my help to you. You need backup, you need me to handle something you can't, you call me. I'll be there, do whatever you need. I owe you that much. But more than that, I trust you. Hard not to when you have such loyal followers," and he jerked his head to the kitchen, to Creedy and Bobby, tallied in Rufus along with Pamela, Ellen, Jo, and Ash. Then he reached his hand out to Sam, tensed for the man's reaction, knew that, what he was offering in place of his cruelty, it wasn't a fair exchange. But Sam reached out, shook his hand.

Grant thought about reaching out for Dean and guiding the blinded man's hand into his own but even before he made a minuscule move to touch Dean, Sam tensed and he knew that Dean's brother wouldn't allow him that familiarity with his brother. Not in Dean's vulnerable state. "So Dean, you going to let me be your backup or are you going to shoot me on sight next time we meet?" he tried for lightness, hoping that Dean's perchance for that type of bargaining style would get him somewhere.

"Me getting a chance to boss you around on a hunt? Like I would pass on that opportunity," Dean returned light banter for light banter, ready to forgive Grant, to turn a foe back into a friend. After all, he wasn't a man with many friends or allies. He couldn't afford to lose any more than he had already lost. '_Then how can you hesitate making that promise to Sam?_' he suddenly chastised himself. '_Sam, __your brother__, is asking for your trust, for you to promise not to leave him, for you two to stay together. If you can find value in a turncoat friend like Grant enough to forgive him, how can you even __think__ of not forgiving Sam, of withholding your full trust from Sam, who has earned it a thousand times over, in ways that no one else would have ever done for you.'_

It was a sobering comparison for Dean.

"Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your fight, Dean," Grant replied to Dean's graciousness with humility, knew that it was a gift, Dean forgiving him, willing to trust him.

Dean somberly nodded, knew that he might be condemning Grant to death if he called upon him to back them up, to cover a base they couldn't. That it seemed probable that very few combatants would walk away from this fight. And, when he was honest with himself, he faced the truth that he most likely wouldn't be one of those lucky few, could only pray that Sam would survive.

"Here's my number," Grant said, pulling out a card with his cell phone number scrawled on it.

Accepting the card Grant held out, Sam watched Grant walk back to the kitchen, exchange a few brief words with Bobby, give a nod to Creedy and then disappear out Bobby's back door. Had to trust that the hunter would take Devon with him, that, whatever fate he had in store for his formal protégé, it would be unpleasant. Very unpleasant.

Approaching the brothers, Creedy came to a stop in front of Sam, knew that he owed the young man more than an apology. He realized that, his actions that day, they might not be reparations enough for nearly murdering him. But to his surprise, the tall young man held out his hand, offered him full absolution. Heartily he shook Sam's hand.

"Thank you for helping us," Sam earnestly said, didn't want to think about how things would have turned out without the other man's defense of them.

"I try to right my wrongs. In an occupation like mine…ours," he corrected with a smirk, "well, you don't always have a lot of time to make amends before you have to meet your Maker. Just didn't like the way it felt, the guilt of what I was part of, what I almost allowed to happen to you. So when Grant called me, wanted to know about Gordon, I knew it was my chance to do things better. A chance I couldn't pass up."

"Glad you didn't," Dean interjected, knew that the man had saved their bacon, that Grant might not have seen the light if not for this hunter's honor, Creedy's ability to see beyond the tales of their exploits.

Creedy nodded his head at Dean's gratitude before he realized the man couldn't see the gesture. "Your welcome," he verbalized, turned as Bobby wheeled into the room.

"So how about you doing more community service, like spreading the news that the Winchesters are trying to stop all this end of the world stuff," Bobby gruffly suggested, sharp eyes on the other hunter. The man had done a fine job of starting to make amends but not anywhere near enough, not when he had almost murdered Sam.

"I'll do that," Creedy readily agreed, turned to face the brothers before he continued. "Fact is, I'm part of a group of hunters, 'bout twenty of us. We hear of a troubled spot, we head there, take on whatever is waiting. Lately it's been suicidal, taking on a job with less than two men to back you up. Don't know how you have survived going solo for so long."

"We're not alone," Dean corrected, knew that Bobby had their backs, that Cas came whenever they called.

"We have each other," Sam shot back, his words overlapping Dean's, a little miffed that Creedy couldn't see that what he and Dean had together, it was better than having twenty men flanking him on a hunt, heck, better than fifty. That it wasn't about how many men had your back, it was about _who_ had your back.

Creedy gave a short laugh. "Either way, it's a miracle you two aren't dead. Anyway, my group's at your disposal."

"What? Excuse me?" Dean asked, wondered if he had lost the thread of the conversation.

"Yeah, I contacted them on my way here, told 'em what was going down. They took a vote, were split on which side they would support until Tamara spoke up."

"Tamara?" Sam broke in, eyebrows rising.

But it was Bobby who made the connection. "We hunted with Isaac and Tamara in Nebraska." Seeing incomprehension still on Sam's features, he clarified, "Does the seven deadly sins ring a bell?"

Suddenly Dean's chest tightened. He remembered Tamara's grief, that he had been willing to help her avenge her husband's death. That he had only been too happy to die ahead of the crossroad dealmaker's schedule, had wanted to avoid the doomsday clock ticking away in his head for 365 more days. Now that type of ending? It would almost be a gift, would at least be a timetable he knew, would be an end to at least something. Even if it consigned him back to hell, he wouldn't have to worry about failing the whole entire world any longer.

Knowing that his audience was tracking his line of thought now, Creedy continued, "Yeah Tamara said how you guys had saved her, had tried to save Isaac. That when the odds were totally against you, when it seemed suicidal to take a stand, you stood your ground, did what needed doing. Well her words, they carried a lot of weight and the vote, it swung into your favor."

"Meaning what?" Bobby demanded, torn between wanting to feel optimistic and not wanting to risk such false hope.

Creedy met Bobby's blazing look head on. "They'll stand with them," he clarified, jerking his head toward the two Winchesters. "Like I said, there's about twenty in our group and it's growing each day. We're organized and experienced." Then he faced the Winchesters again. "I know it's not an army but we're all vested 100%. We're not going down without a fight, without taking as many of them with us as we can."

"Sounds like my kind of club," Dean smirked, impressed with the group motto.

"Oh, you'ld like it," Creedy agreed. "So I'll give Bobby the number, you call and it'll go into a general voice account and someone will call you back, get the coordinates and the details of the hunt."

"Just like that, your little group's going to take a lead from us? Do what we say?" Dean couldn't help ask incredulously.

Creedy didn't take offense to Dean's words, explained instead, "In our business, it's word of mouth that makes a hunter's reputation. I know there's been a lot of harsh speculation about you boys but other hunters' eye witness accounts of how you boys handle yourselves is worth more than any stories around a campfire told by a possessed person. We know what you're about..and we'll make our stand with you."

"I…thanks, Creedy. For everything," Sam stammered, overwhelmed by the trust that was being given to them, the small army that was now only a phone call away.

"Come on, let's have a drink," Bobby said, wanting to grill Creedy about his fellow hunters, their past exploits, their strengths and limitations, already planning on doing his own background check on each member. He was going to decide if this little 'army' of Creedy's was worthy to back up his boys.

"This day isn't ending like I thought it would," Dean murmured, awed at the idea that they had gained allies through the whole mess, that their execution trial had turned into a recruitment center.

Sam gave a laugh. "Yeah. Twenty hunters, Dean. Plus Grant…" he said in amazement. "It's crazy, right, the idea that we could have that kind of backup."

And it was crazy. That anyone, let alone twenty someones, would follow their lead, especially with their reputations, of the rumors about them that were true, with the death count that was already laid at their door. It was more than crazy …it was a miracle. Support like that. Support out of nowhere. Support coming out of a gathering of hunters that were supposed to judge then, kill them. It made Dean remember something that someone had said to him years ago…that Layla had said to him. '_God works in mysterious ways_.' And the same reply that he had said to Layla came to him now, '_Maybe He does_.' But this time he was starting to believe it. His brother's soft, concerned voice jarred him from his thoughts.

"Hey, you alright?" Sam asked, leaning closer to Dean, his brother's silence alarming him.

Dean cleared his throat of the emotions that were trying to take over. "Yeah." Then with more strength, he assured, "Yeah. I'm fine."

With a bang of the kitchen door, Rufus entered the house, gave a nod to Creedy as he left. Raising his voice so it would carry from the kitchen to the living room where the Winchesters stood, he reported, "Grant's gonna drop Devon and his two friends off with a police buddy of his. Seems Devon's wrap sheet could get him a fifteen …twenty year sentence. Ten with good behavior…which ain't very likely," and Rufus smiled at the impossibility of that. Then giving Bobby a look, he entered the living room, faced the two men who had caused so much trouble. "Well you two look like crap."

"Always with the compliments," Dean sallied back, scrounged up a smirk to go with it.

Rufus couldn't help himself, he snorted in laughter. He had to admire Dean's spirit, especially looking as bad as the kid did, blinded, bloodied, and pale. "I'ld give you a compliment, if you ever earned it. So don't hold your breath."

"Wasn't going to," Dean replied but he was smiling, was beginning to suspect that there might be some affection for him and Sam beneath Rufus' bluster.

"I heard about Jo and Ellen," Rufus bluntly announced, his sharp eyes sliding to the one Winchester who could meet his eyes. He saw regret and sorrow reflected sharply in Sam Winchester's eyes. Satisfied with his findings he settled his look back upon Dean. "Least they went down fighting by each others side. It's what Ellen would have wanted." Silence met his statement but the air was thick with grief. "Guess you think I should thank you for bringing them back together?" he coarsely asked, let indignation ring in his tone, hoped Dean rose to the challenge he was tossing down.

"No," Dean denied. "It wasn't just me. Ellen helped me figure out that War was turning us against each other." Knew that Ellen's presence had kept him sane when Sam went missing, had steadied him when he needed an ally to have his back. But more than that, Ellen had had faith in him when he needed it most. '_And she had trusted me…and look what it cost her. Her life and the life of her daughter_.' "Ellen got Jo back, not me." '_I'm the one that stole Jo away from her, left her with the choice to either let her daughter die alone or to die with her._'

"No, genius. Before that," Rufus scoffed, wondered how Bobby wasn't all grey having to worry about how these two rocket scientists were faring against the greatest evil in the world. He saw Dean's head tilt, knew Winchester didn't have a clue what he was talking about. He exhaled, couldn't believe Bobby had gotten him tangled up with John Winchester's boys. "Ellen and Jo were barely returning phone calls a few months ago. Most of which ended in screaming matches and hangups."

"Family, ain't it grand," Dean mumbled, understood that type of tension and conflict with someone you loved. Was surprised that Sam, instead of releasing his hold on him at the slam, he did the opposite, readjusted his grip, coiled his hand _tighter_ into the fabric of his shirt.

"Yeah, bed of roses," Rufus retorted back, having had his own disagreements with his family.

"So what changed? They seemed really close again. How did they mend things?" Sam asked, needed someone to tell him the secret to righting wrongs, to healing rifts, to keeping a family together.

"Your brother dying, that's what happened," Rufus stated with all the brusqueness he was gifted with, felt a small flare of guilt when Sam Winchester flinched at the reference. Cowardly looking away from Sam's too expressive features, he focused on Dean. "When you died in that crossroad deal of yours, the news hit Ellen hard. And when she told Jo…" he broke off, didn't want to recount how worried Ellen had been. That Jo's grief had been so strong, that she had wanted vengeance so badly that Ellen feared she would do something reckless. "Well, they started hunting together after that." Because both woman wanted some payback for Dean's death, had wanted to make his death not be in vain. They would have joined up with Sam if the younger Winchester hadn't dropped off the face of the earth after his brother's death.

Even without seeing Dean Winchester's eyes, Rufus knew the man was affected by his words, saw Dean draw in a shaky breath. "Bringing a family back together again, I don't know what that's worth to you compared to your time in hell…."

"It's worth a lot," Dean said huskily, a part of him eased that something good, beside Sam being alive, had come out of his sacrifice. That he had been able to reunite a family even as he had viciously ripped his own apart.

Sam knew that Dean was earnest in his reply, that, to his brother, families were the most important thing in the world…in his world. And it gave him hope, remembering that, having it cemented by Dean's words. Dean didn't carelessly abandon his family, the people that he loved. And he never did it to purposefully inflict pain, to deal out a punishment. He only left to protect the ones that he cared about, to save them, to be able to focus on saving the world. '_And he left when it was more painful for him to be with me than without me. I can't let that happen again, can't hurt him more than I already have. I can't let him think that leaving me behind would be the safer bet.' _Deep in his thoughts, Sam startled when Bobby said his name again. "Yeah?"

"You doing OK? There for a second, you looked as pale as Dean?" Bobby worriedly asked, knew the kid had been through a storm of troubles, both boys had.

Sam gave Bobby a bug eyed glare for drawing attention to him, for most likely inciting Dean's overprotective big brother concern. And right on schedule, the next second his brother was worriedly firing questions at him.  
"Sam, you alright? Were you hurt and didn't tell me? You need to sit down?" Dean demanded, cursed himself for not remembering that Sam had to still be weak from the detox. Blindly reaching out to his side, he clutched Sam's shirt in his grip, wished he could see his brother, could do an inspection, visual or physical, to ascertain the state his little brother was in, like he usually did after they were put through a wringer of pain and panic.

Dismissing Bobby and Rufus as if they had already left the room, Sam turned to his brother. "I'm not hurt, Dean. I'm not," he reassured, wrapping his hand around Dean's wrist. "But you are," he stated, his voice cracking. The bandage over Dean's eyes was stark evidence of that fact. "Come on, you need to take a shower, get that pepper spray out of your eyes," he beckoned as he resettled his grip on Dean's elbow. Slowly guiding Dean to turn to the right, he led him forward toward the stairs.

And Dean didn't hesitate to follow Sam's lead, trusted him even when he was at his most vulnerable, was the most lost. Sam's heart swelled at that unparalleled gift. It proved that, though Dean's faith in him was shaken, it wasn't gone. Not yet.

Bringing Dean to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, Sam grimaced at the books Bobby had littering the stairway. "Here's the railing," he explained as he raised Dean's arm, settled his brother's hand onto the wooden railing, wanted Dean to have some sense of control. Though he fully expected Dean to retort with a smart aleck comment, his brother simply nodded and curled his hand around the wooden railing, wore a closed down expression.

Hoping that it was merely an outward sign of Dean's hatred of being helpless, Sam didn't press Dean, opted for silence instead. Slipping to Dean's other side, he kept his arm bracing Dean and began pulling the books off the steps through the railing with his other hand. But as fate would have it, even his arms weren't long enough to reach the two others steps occupied by books. With reluctance, he released his hold on Dean even as he vowed the physical disconnection with Dean would only be for a second, a mere blinking of the eye, one inhale, two at the most. Stepping beside the staircase, he hurriedly snagged the books off the steps.

A familiar ache spread through Dean. This he remembered. Though it usually came at his father's hand not Sam's. The 'work through the pain son' therapy, the 'I'm not always going to be there to save your butt, Dean. You have to learn to survive on your own, to count on nobody but yourself.' The survivors code. The suck it up and do what must be done no matter how badly you're hurt, how much blood's flowing or that laying down and dying sounds more appealing than living. His father had taught him well. He could perform even when he was dead inside, just ask Famine.

Sam's heart skipped a beat as he turned to see that Dean was moving forward, was raising his foot and tentatively lowering it unto the first step. The books fell from his grip as he lurched forward even as Dean was forcing himself to proceed to the next step. Then as if his fears were realized, Dean misjudged the step's height and his foot caught mid-motion.

Falling, Dean threw his hands out, hoping, albeit forlornly, to somehow brace himself. But before gravity could do its number on him, an arm collided with his chest, and he felt like he was getting sacked in a football game. Suddenly his fate changed from falling forwards to falling backwards. But the solidness that he landed against, he couldn't quite attribute it to Sam for a moment, as he tried to process how his brother could move so fast. How Sam could be beside him one second and behind him the next in time to catch him. His brother's hissed words right by his ear confirmed that Sam had done just that type of feat.

"What the heck Dean?" Sam exclaimed incredulously, heart still tripping along at how close Dean had come to falling, hitting his head on the stairs, of maybe exacerbating his existing wounds. Wrapping both arms around Dean, he wasn't sure who he was steadying more, his brother or himself. "You couldn't wait for me for two seconds," his fear surfacing as anger.

"Thought you were…" Dean began to defend himself but he broke off, didn't want Sam to know what he thought.

'_Gone_,' Sam finished and he felt his jaw clench. Dean thought it was so easy for him to leave him, that he did it as easily as he breathed. Inhale/Stay. Exhale/Leave. And there was no one to blame for that but him. Well him and his father. Only the people Dean trusted, needed the most_._ "Well, I'm not," he vowed stridently, as if he was angered by Dean's assumptions. But it was himself that he was mad at, not Dean. Not his brother. Quietly, with more fervent promise, he vowed, "I'm not, Dean. I'm here."

Dean nodded, couldn't find the words to answer the pledge in his brother's tone. Struggled to realign his thinking again, to remember that, for all that Sam was like their father, he was nothing like him either. Every time he was hurt, Sam was there, helping him, putting him back together again, was sometimes even treading the line of _coddling_ him. "Yeah, I should have known that," he admitted, shamed at his own lack of trust. Especially after all the crap they had just went through for the past couple of hours, wondering if they were about to get a bullet into the brain, were about to be split up forever. "Sorry, Sammy."

Dean's apology, his so causally uttered "Sammy", it was what bound Sam to his brother, would forever bind him to Dean. His brother's compassion, his ability to make him feel safe, secure, loved just by calling him by the nick name. Maybe that was the way of family, that there was understanding and some habits and a level of kindnesses that you couldn't get from anyone else, that you might not even accept from anyone else. He still hated that he had let Ruby call him Sammy. But he had needed to hear that nickname so badly, needed to have some tie to Dean, he thought he would curl up and die if he didn't get it. Ironically, he had needed it enough to accept it from the very type of evil that was torturing his brother in hell.

Breaking out of his dark ruminations, Sam replied to his brother's apology, "No, I should have told you I would be right back, that I had to leave you for a second."

"I'm not a kid, Sam," Dean bristled at the notion that he was helpless, needed his brother to hold his hand, even through this event.

Feeling Dean's body tense under his arms, knowing that Dean's next reaction might well be to refuse all of his help, Sam loosened his manic grip on Dean and quickly agreed, "I'm not saying you are, Dean. Just…I should have warned you." Relinquishing his hold back to causal support, he moved to his brother's left side. "The stairway's too small for us both so you go first and I'll just be a step behind you."

"Or I could just use the sink in the kitchen to rinse my eyes," Dean suggested, a wave of dread and exhaustion coming over him at the tedious task of traversing the stairs.

"The shower's better, has a steady spray to rinse your eyes out, plus your clothing is probably stuck to you by the dried blood so you need a good soaking. And last but not least, the best bed is upstairs. You know the one Bobby has never let us sleep on, no matter how hurt or sick we were," he tacked on, hoping Dean would react to the added incentive.

"Now you're talking. For that type of creature comfort, not to mention payback, I can do some stairs." But this time, Dean didn't venture forward until Sam's arm was securely around his back with familiarity and his brother's strong hand was latched unto his arm. He waited until Sam was with him, until they could move together, in synch with each other.

Dean wasn't fooled by the first step being easy, he had been there before. '_But alone_.' And he knew that was the difference. It always was.

"The steps aren't all the same height because it's an older house, original owner probably built them himself," Sam pointed out, as if were just polite conversation, wasn't a justification for Dean's earlier failure, or a word of warning to his brother. Guiding Dean forward, he watched, with a held breath, as Dean raised his foot. To his relief, it cleared the first step and came to rest on the second step. Then the next and the next.

"You think Bobby built this house?" Dean asked, did it so he could think about something more intelligent than '_Ok next step. You can do it'_.

"Don't know," Sam distractedly answered, eyes still on his brother's feet, didn't have time to warn Dean to raise his foot higher before his brother's boot caught the top of the step, threw Dean off balance. Instantly, Sam pinned Dean to the railing, hoping to keep them both from tottering backwards, hated that Dean hissed in pain at the rough handling. When he was certain that they were holding their position, he asked, "You Ok?" intently focused on his brother's face to get the truth.

"Have I said lately that this sucks?" Dean growled, hating his helplessness, that the natural grace and athleticism he had always relied upon to keep him alive meant little in a world of darkness.

Pain shafted through Sam for his brother. He knew Dean wouldn't welcome reassurances murmured in his ear, though he totally deserved sympathy and soothing, he wouldn't accept it. So Sam forced himself to disguise his sympathy, his concern in a sarcastic dig. "Whine much, Dean?" Giving Dean a nudge, he set them back into motion. Added on a few moments later, "You and Bobby want to have a competition, whose life sucks worse?"

"I'ld win but he'ld never concede the victory," Dean volleyed back, glad Sam wasn't going to let him wallow in self pity. "So we getting close? Five stairs, ten stairs? What?"

Having used their conversation to regulate their pace, to ensure Dean didn't over think every step, Sam focused on achieving some real progress. He didn't answer until he had prodded Dean up a few more stairs. "None," he happily announced, relieved to find them cresting the top of the stairs and stepping into the safety of the hallway.

Hand leaving the railing, Dean reached out as Sam guided him to the left and his fingers came into contact with the wall. Confidently, he pegged that they were in the hallway, that the bathroom was about ten steps away. "I can take it from here."

"Not happening," Sam defiantly replied, not caring how much Dean protested his help. "I think I read that you should use cold water to rinse stuff out of your eyes," he spoke matter-of-factly, as if that was the topic of conversation the whole time.

"Don't tell me, you did a medical class at Stanford, tried to pick up some hot nurses?" Dean joked, knew that wasn't his brother's style, was his. Sam called him on it too.

"That's why you would take that type of class, Dean," Sam bantered back, glad for the return to normal, well normal for them.

"Yeah," Dean heartily agreed as if Sam was crazy if he had to question his motives. And Sam's small laugh, it vibrated through him, flowed over him. Made whatever they had been through, whatever they still had to survive seem not so bad. "I'm not leaving," the words slipped out of him, from one breath to the next, and the vow, it was the truth. Was a truth he couldn't bear to withhold from Sam a second longer.

At Dean's fervent vow, Sam stumbled a stop, brought Dean to a stop with him. "Dean.." he breathed out his brother's name, uncertain of the words to follow.

"Grant's a dude I hunted with like twice," Dean began, knew that he was talking in riddles. Sam didn't interrupt him when he paused there, tried to get his thoughts in order, but he felt his brother stiffen at his side, waiting for him. And that was the thing about Sam, he was there for him, whenever he deemed himself in need of a brother, or a hunting partner, or a best friend. Sam was there. "You think I would forgive him and not you? You're my brother, Sam. My _brother_."

"But what I've done…the blood…." Sam stammered, couldn't let his past transgressions go untallied.

"And I played torture master in hell," Dean bluntly stated, wore that guilt every day, would always wear it. "If the world's looking for a bunch of saints to save it…well, they are certainly out of luck 'cause all they got is us."

"Team Free Will?" Sam smirked, reveling in Dean's laughter, his cocky smirk.

"That's us," Dean proclaimed proudly, like he believed in that particular team's ability to win, to save the very world. "I'm not saying…" he stopped, didn't know how to say that everything wasn't 100% back the way it was, that it couldn't be. But he thought that, just maybe, what they might end up with would be better than what they had even started with.

"That you don't trust me fully," Sam provided the ending to his brother's statement. "I know and I don't blame you, not at all."

"Sam, I didn't mean…"  
"But it's true and I accept that. I've betrayed you and I need to prove myself to you…"  
"You have, Sam," Dean insisted, hated the guilt he heard in his brother's voice.

"I've started to," Sam countered. "Was starting to and then the whole…off the wagon thing with Famine, my drinking the blood again and using the powers. I screwed up and I wish to God that I hadn't."

"A friggin' horseman. That's what we were up against, Sam. Thing had Cas, an _angel,_ down on all fours, shoving raw hamburger into his mouth," Dean pointed out heatedly, wanted Sam to see the true situation, that everyone fell under Famine's wave of destruction. Well, everyone alive inside did.  
"But, my drinking the blood, that's not what bothers you," Sam quietly broke in, biting his lip, wished he could take Dean's excuses and let things go, pretend they would heal, that the truth could stay buried. "You're right I couldn't help that. But I could have resisted using the powers the blood gave me. That's what you can't forgive."

Dean didn't want to have this conversation, ever, but it was easier to have it now, without having to see Sam, to know how much he was hurting his brother. "You're right. I'm having a hard time with that."

Sam nodded, couldn't speak, his emotional floodgates too weak to allow that gesture.

"You love having that power, Sam. You do. I see it in your eyes." And he felt Sam shift beside him, prepared for Sam to desert him now after the accusation, but his brother remained dedicatedly at his side, his arm and hand stayed supporting him. "And that…it scares me, Sammy. More than anything, it scares me," he confessed, felt his voice break under the truth, under the fear that he had been living with since Sam did his first exorcism by his mind control. A fear that only racketed higher every time he saw it, that made his blood run cold in that restaurant, colder than even Famine's touch, his proclamation could.

Sam wanted to protest his brother's words, to reassure Dean that it wasn't like that, that he was worried about nothing. "It scares me too," he admitted instead, the quiet words loud in the hallway, in the too quiet house. "I…I wish I could deny it, could tell you that there isn't …satisfaction flowing through me when I use those powers." He felt Dean's shaky inhales, saw Dean's head bow as if he were being crushed under the weight. He leaned closer to Dean until his chin was practically resting on his brother's shoulder, his forehead almost touching Dean's bowed head, said quietly, with aching fear, "Famine would have killed you, Dean. If I hadn't shown up…if I hadn't had my powers…and I …I can't pretend I would change that. That, if I had to do it over, I wouldn't choose that path."

"Don't say that, Sam, don't say that," Dean nearly pleaded, didn't want Sam to walk that path for anyone, certainly not for him.

"Like you said, you're my brother," Sam stated, as if that was proof enough. And it was, was all that mattered. "If I would risk everything, my very soul to save the world, to save strangers, how much do you think I would risk to save you. There isn't anything I wouldn't risk, wouldn't sacrifice, for you."

Dean's breath caught and he raised his head, could feel how close Sam was..and yet he knew it could all change, any second. That something, someONE could come in, separate them, maybe forever. "But that's what they want, what they're hoping, Sam. It's the way they can manipulate us, get us to say yes…"

"They think so but I don't," Sam announced, had had this thought bouncing in his head for awhile now. "Because either of us saying 'yes', you and I both know that it would be us sacrificing the other. We won't do that, can't. Like you said, there's love between us, family, and that's something stronger than they know how to manipulate…or break."

"What if it's not, Sammy? What if it's not?" Dean breathlessly asked, wanted to believe Sam, wanted to believe in Sam so badly that it hurt.

"It is, Dean," Sam promised, clung to the belief as he tethered himself more tightly to his brother. But only truly believed it himself when Dean nodded, when his brother's tension melted away to be replaced by a defiant stance of resolve.

Voices from downstairs floated upstairs, broke into their private world…

Bobby's irritated voice came to them first. "Dang it, Rufus! You owe me new windows. That the best you could come up with?"

"No," Rufus drawled before he let venom carry in his next words. "I coulda let them execute the kid. You like that ending better than a few broken windows."

"You know I don't!" A heartbeat of silence then Bobby growled, "Don't gloat!"

There was rare humor in Rufus' tone. "Never knew you were so prissy about your house, Singer."

"Oh, I don't know, I just don't like holes where they shouldn't be," Bobby sarcastically bit out.

"Least it's warmer weather."

"And what? I looked like I wanted my bed to have an unobstructed view of the night sky?" but the voices were already fading away as the two men again headed back outside, to do who knew what.

Sam smiled at Dean, saw that Dean's expression matched his own. "I told you upstairs, out of the line of fire, was the way to go."

"Glad I listened to you," Dean said, letting Sam again guide him forward, didn't even keep his hand to the wall anymore, didn't need that extra support, that measure of control. Sam was there, was in control. That was good enough for him.

"For once you listened to me." Finally reaching the bathroom, Sam instructed, "We're at the bathroom so hang a right…now." And Dean obeyed on command, stepped through the doorway of the bathroom as if he was as confident as he would have been sighted.

After turning right and taking a step, Dean stopped, knew he was standing in the middle of the bathroom, could smell aftershave and the flowery shampoo Sam wouldn't admit was his. "Stay there a sec," Sam ordered unnecessarily because, this time, when Sam's hands slipped away from him, he didn't think for a second that his brother had abandoned him, that Sam expected him to find his own way in the darkness, knew that, his brother was clearing the path for him, was doing everything in his power to make sure things were set up for him. Hearing the squeak of hinges, the hiss of the shower coming to life, the pelting of water hitting the shower floor, he startled when hands wrapped around his forearms.

"Sorry," Sam apologized. "Shower's on and the water…I've got it pretty cold." Tugging on Dean's arms, he backed up even as his brother stepped forward. Stopping when his own foot ran into the wall beside the shower, he halted Dean. "I'm going to take the bandages off now Dean," he announced waited until Dean nodded before he reached up began unwinding the bandages from around his brother's eyes and head. He hissed at the sight of the blistered redness around his brother's closed eyes, having almost forgotten the damage done.

Hearing Sam's hiss, Dean worried inquired "What's wrong?"

"It looks bad," Sam quietly admitted. "Pepper spray shouldn't blister the skin," anger carrying in the words.

"Like we said, hunters improvise," Dean calmly reasoned, too tired to resurrect anger at Devon.

Swallowing his own anger at his brother's mistreatment, Sam said, "We'll put ointment on the burns later." Knew that Dean would react better to the 'we' idea than the 'I' statement, regardless that it would solely be him doing the patch up this time. Sliding to Dean's side, he gripped his brother's right elbow. "Ok, the shower's straight ahead, three steps."

But Dean didn't budge, taunted instead, "Whoa, forgetting something Sam?" At Sam's silence, envisioning the way his brother's face would scrunch up in confusion, Dean answered his own question, "My clothing?"

"It's not the first time you've gotten drenched, besides, like I said, we need to loosen up the dried blood before you can get your shirt and jeans off. Consider this multitasking." And Sam nudged Dean forward.

Dean took one step and then stopped. "My shoes too? These are my favorites, dude. I have them broken in just right, they aren't too holely…or stinky."

Sam sighed as if he were dealing with a child. "Alright, alright. Kick them off." Reaching out, he pulled Dean's hand onto his shoulder. With Dean properly balanced against him, he watched Dean perform his perfected ritual of toeing off his shoes. Found the action not as familiar as it should have been.

"You don't take them off to sleep anymore," Sam suddenly realized, head snapping up to Dean's face, to his brother's closed eyes, blistered skin…and closed down expression. "Do you?" the question was gentle because he knew that there were reasons his brother didn't let down his guard, even in sleep. And those reasons? None of them were good. "And you keep your clothing on…never get under the covers anymore…" Sam couldn't shut down the observations, wouldn't. Had let them go unquestioned for too long. Had let Dean keep it all inside, to himself. '_And it's only hurt him worse, not talking about it, us not talking about it.'_

"Dude, shower's running and you know the way Bobby feels about wasting water," Dean deflected took a step forward uncaring if he ran smack into the shower door, just wanted the conversation to end.

But Sam's hand came to rest on his chest, stopping him with the lightest of touches. "You can't keep going on like this Dean, barely sleeping or eating," his brother's gentle voice was nearly his undoing. He couldn't face such tenderness when the topic was so gruesome.

"Sure I can. I won't have to do it much longer since the world's ending," he quipped darkly. "But I really would like to see it coming Sam." And he raised his hand, pointed to where he knew the shower was as if he were asking permission. He heard his brother's sigh of defeat and he was grateful that he could still win a victory here and there.

Accepting that now wasn't the time to press Dean, Sam removed his hand form Dean's chest, slid it to his brother's bicep and guided him forward, under the shower's spray. He stepped into the shower at his brother's back, fully clothed, his own favorite shoes be danged. He snagged Dean's blindly searching hands, pressed them to the shower wall so Dean could orient himself, hold himself upright as he finally stepped forward far enough to have the spray of the water cascade over his face, into his eyes. Reaching forward, Sam adjusted the shower head, made sure the water hit Dean exactly where it needed to. Then he drew back a step until his back came up against the shower wall. Felt drained as he watched Dean pry his eyes open, flinched when a moan of pain escaped his brother's barriers as the pepper spray continued to unleash its menace on his brother's eyes.

Determined to not shrink from the pain, to get the crap out of his eyes once and for all, Dean forced his eyes opened, to stay open. A choked cry erupted out of his throat again as the agony returned full force. But then the pain lessened as the water continued to pelt his eyes, made him remember the first time that he had opened his eyes underwater, had seen things that fascinated him. Knew that his mother had been right, it had been cool, not scary, to open his eyes under the water.

Sam knew the instant Dean's agony started to sluice away, was being replaced with contentment, could detect the change in his brother's body language. He was surprised that his own voice was husky when he spoke, his own relief washing over him. "Is it better? Does it still hurt?"

"Yeah," Dean answered simply.

And Sam cursed himself for asking two questions, one of which yeah was good and one of which it was very bad. He was about to ask for a clarification when Dean did that on his own.

"To both. But the pain's more like a sting than the 'knife in my eyes' kind now."

Sam hated the description Dean used, knew that Dean's didn't exaggerate his pain, barley spoke of it instead. So 'knife in the eyes'…that was how bad it had been…for hours. "And you can see?" his tone careful, tentative, his worry evident. He saw Dean drop his head forward to let the water rain down on the back of his head. Then Dean nodded. He couldn't help wish that Dean would use his words. A declaration from his brother he would believe more than the silent gesture but he didn't press the matter, accepted the answer Dean had given.

It took Sam a moment to move, to say what he knew he should, "Guess you don't need me sharing your shower anymore then…" tried to say the words jokingly but they sounded thick with emotions even to his own ears. Couldn't help feeling that his stepping away now, it meant Dean didn't need him, at all. For anything.

Knowing the emotions behind his brother's words, Dean turned around, reached out, this time with his eyesight mostly in tact, and gripped Sam's arm, stopped his brother from walking away thinking that he wasn't needed. For the first time in hours…maybe in days, his eyes met Sam's, saw the fear and the pain and the exhaustion in the depths. Saw also the affection, the love his brother had for him. Regardless of all the wrong things he had done, had said, how stupidly he had reacted to the things Sam had gone through. "Sam, I…" and he saw Sam's fear increase, knew that his brother didn't know what to expect from him anymore. And that had to change. "Thanks, Sammy. I really needed you and you didn't let me down." Sam gave a nod and a watery smile, one that had nothing to do with the shower water. "There's no one I would want at my side when the world's coming apart but you. And I trust you more than anyone else..I do.…I just need…"

"I know, Dean," Sam assured, and he did, knew that Dean was telling the truth, knew just as well that Dean needed time, needed more proof that that trust wasn't misplaced. And he wanted to give all that to Dean. Would. "We'll work this out, this stuff between us." He felt like something broken inside him was starting to heal when Dean nodded, when his brother's bloodshot eyes held his and radiated that familiar twinkle.

"We'll go on Jerry Springer, talk about possessions, addictions, torture methods, self delusions, self harm," Dean joked because it felt good, the hope that Sam was offering to him, the idea of even having a future, especially one with Sam at his side.

Sam laughed easily. "Dean, I think we're too much for Springer to even handle."

Dean shrugged, "Larry King?"

Shaking his head in disbelief and humor, Sam stepped out of the shower, his wet shoes squeaking on the bathroom floor as he shut the shower door. "I'll bring in some clothing for you."

"Great, 'cause somehow mine are all soaked," Dean grumbled through the shower door.

"Wash your eyes out for at least ten minutes with the cold water," Sam ordered, heard Dean's "Yes, Mommy Dearest," just before he slipped out of the bathroom and closed the door.

Heading back down the stairs for Dean's clothing and the first aid kit, Sam knew he was smiling like an idiot, that he was practically bounding down the stairs, not with urgency but happiness. Sure the day had started out crappy, had only gotten worse but now…it seemed like one of the best days he had had in a long time. And that had nothing to do with stopping a seal from breaking, realizing that his curse could be useful, that he was stronger than he thought, that they had won some victory over evil. None of that. Instead it had everything to do with knowing that he still had his brother with him, that Dean still chose to be with him, that Dean still loved him, was working on forgiving him, wanted to trust him again. And it was a startling revelation, to know that, sometimes the greatest things in his life weren't what he achieved himself but was what other people freely gave to him.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Dean wasn't all that impressed with Sam's version of providing clothing to him. With only a pair of boxers on, he felt like Marky Mark. Course a knifed up, bruised, blood shot eyed Marky Mark. The pain pills his brother had sat on the countertop for him? Those were right up his alley. Wasn't surprised when his brother's voice came through the bathroom door, "Dean, you decent?"

"Define decent?" Dean retorted, looked away from the mirror to the door as it opened to reveal Sam.

Sam scowled at the stark proof of the damage Devon had inflicted on Dean. Stepping into the bathroom, his jaw clenched as he saw his brother's back, the diagonal cut Devon had made, could more clearly see the cuts on his brother's stomach, hip and arm. His vile hatred for Devon flared again, knew that, if the man was in the house, even in _the state_, he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from attacking him again.

Reaching out, he gently touched the wound on his brother's back, both admired and hated that Dean didn't react to the pain, stood still, like it was something he was familiar with, accepted, even deserved. "This is going to need stitches," he announced wretchedly, an apology in his tone. Then he slid to Dean's side, hands inspecting the cut on his brother's arm before moving to skim over the slash on his stomach. He knew when Dean flinched it was more about his ticklishness than any reaction to pain. A small smile turned up his lips, which of course Dean saw.

"Like you're not ticklish there too," Dean grumbled, knew what Sam was thinking. And that was reassuring, to know for certain what was running through his brother's head, to not have to wonder, to guess, to dread what thoughts were there, thoughts he might not want to know.

"Yeah but not as ticklish as you are," Sam proudly shot back, eyes flickering to Dean's before he focused on the cut on his brother's hip. He sighed before he faced Dean again, "All these need stitches Dean."

"No they don't," Dean protested, turning his head to look at his left arm, hand reaching up to feel the cut again. "This one will be ok with some butterfly bandages and…" But before he could touch the wound, Sam arrested his hand and their eyes clashed.

"Is that what you would say if I had this cut?" Sam baited, knew when Dean looked away that he had Dean backed into a corner. Releasing Dean's hand, he crossed to Dean's other side and supportively wrapped his arm around his brother's waist. "This will be easier with you lying down," he announced before he maneuvered Dean toward the door, felt relieved that, instead of resisting his help, Dean laid his arm across his shoulders. Course he knew that type of capitulation was also a testament of how weak and in pain his brother was.

Bobby's bedroom was only the next room down the hallway but Sam took it slow, didn't allow Dean to rush the process, to pretend he wasn't limping, that the cut on his hip didn't cause pain to flare up with every step. When he had helped Dean up the stairs, he had forgotten that injury, that Dean had not only been negotiating the stairs blind but with an injured leg. But he knew why Dean hadn't mentioned it, hadn't allowed himself to limp, to falter: '_The jerk didn't want me offering to carry him.' _

"What are you smiling about?" Dean asked in curiosity, perplexed at the soft smile Sam was wearing.

Caught in the act, Sam spared a look to Dean, saw the inquisitive look on his brother's features and came clean. "Just envisioned me trying to carry you up the stairs earlier."

Dean snorted, "Wouldna happened," his tone implied that he would not have let it happen.

"Coulda," Sam volleyed back, smirk in place instead of defiance as he and Dean passed through the bedroom doorway, headed for the bed. Sam had turned down the sheets and had the foresight to line the mattress with towels. Because, using Bobby's bed and surviving was one thing. Staining it with blood was another entirely different, far greater offense.

"Over my dead body," Dean growled back but knew he had said the wrong thing when Sam flinched, when his brother's coloring, which honestly wasn't that great, went paler. Sometimes he forgot that he wasn't the only one of them that knew what it was like seeing his brother's lifeless body, of carrying it, of knowing that the most important person in his life was gone. As they approached the bed, he quietly said, a chuckle in his tone, "Remember when Dad had us running around, carrying each other in a fireman's hold?"

Sam's head snapped to Dean at the reference, knew that Dean purposefully didn't revisit their childhood training exercises because he resented them. Well most of them. He smiled at this memory though. "You mean the time that I was carrying you and you made me trip and we landed in that patch of poison ivy?"

"I didn't make you trip, you tripped all on your own, Sammy. That was all you," Dean refuted but he was smiling at the memory, of him and Sam lying on the ground, laughing so hard that they had to clutch their stomachs, unknowingly getting more and more areas of their bodies covered with poison ivy.

"You jabbed me in the ribs, Dean, made me…" Sam broke off, knew it was the evidence Dean was looking for earlier.

Dean smirked at his victory. "Exactly, I made you laugh 'cause you're ticklish there."

"See, it was your fault," Sam focused on the part of the story that he needed for his defense. Arriving at the bed, he turned them around and eased Dean backwards to sit on the side of the bed. Then he slowly helped Dean put his legs onto the bed and gradually settle back onto the mattress before he removed his touch. He stood there a moment, looking down at his brother, noted that Dean's complexion was as white as the sheets and his eyes were closed, concealing the painfully bloodshot whites of them from his view.

Crossing over to the nightstand where he had laid out the first aid kit supplies he deemed he would need, he scowled again at the needle that had taken him so long to thread, his hands shaking almost too much to be of use. Knew that it was the result, not of nerves, but of exhaustion, from still being weak from his detox, from using the extent of his energy on beating the crap out of Devon, of helping support Dean's weight as they got up the stairs and into the shower. Fisting his hands, he prayed that they would still when he needed them to, when he was stitching up the wounds that marred his brother's body.

Centering on first things first, he doused a sterile bandage with antibacterial solution and turned to Dean, was rewarded with his brother's eye contact. No words passed between them, none were needed. This was a way of life with them, being hurt, stitching each other up, taking care of each other. Knowing that there was no need to offer a warning or an apology, seeing the trust in Dean's eyes, Sam stepped to his brother's side, pressed the treated bandage onto the savage cut on his brother's stomach.

And this time Dean didn't react to Sam's touch there, wouldn't take the chance that Sam might think it was in pain, was a rejection of him. Using his steel nerves to ignore the pain and the ticklishness, Dean lay still under his brother's treatment. But Sam's jaw clenched all the same because, like it or not, Sam knew him, always knew when he was in pain without him having to telegraph it. And sadly, Sam was also too familiar with similar wounds on his own body, knew the pain of getting them and getting them treated. It was the life they lived.

"Least we don't need holy water," Sam tried for lightness but his voice was raw, ratted out his emotions as if his voice has broken.

But Dean didn't disappoint. "Yeah, it's such a relief to get stabbed by mere humans," he drawled with sarcasm, his eyes sparkling up to Sam's.

Both Sam and Dean's eyes shot to the end of the bed as another voice spoke in the room.

"What transpired here?" Castiel asked, bitterly noting the wounds on Dean's body, perceptively reading the worry in Sam's essence, and utterly surprised by the total lack of tension between the brothers.

Looking to his angel friend standing at the end of the bed, sporting a scowl of confusion, Dean smirked. "Hunters' reunion. Wild party. Wild. Sorry you missed it."

Accustomed to Dean's deflection, of the man's habit of using humor when a situation was far from comical, Cas came to the side of the bed, stood beside Sam but his eyes didn't leave Dean's. "You are hurt."

"No flies on you," Dean mumbled.

Sam's reply was more helpful, though he didn't meet Cas' eyes, met his brother's instead even as he shuffled under the guilt. "Some hunters wanted us to pay for what happened to Pamela, Ellen and Jo."

"You did not cause their deaths," Cas stated matter-of-factly, a hint of indignation coming to life in his tone, in defense of his friends. Seeing the brothers exchange a look of guilt, Cas stepped closer to Sam, to Dean. "I saw in each of their hearts, knew that they believed in the fight…and in both of you. Sadly, in war there are causalities but not in vain, not when their efforts are for the side of good." Finding Sam and Dean staring at him, almost in surprised awe at his words, Cas shook himself, took a step back, as if distancing himself from the Winchesters and the emotions that were becoming more of his everyday existence. "I have lost comrades before, lost brothers. I know the pain of loss...and I also know my brothers would do it all over again because of their faith in the fight. It is the same way with Pamela, Ellen and Jo."

Pulling his look from Cas, Sam looked to Dean, saw that his brother was still contemplating the angel. Turning to Cas, he decided to speak for himself and Dean both. "Thanks Cas. That means…a lot."

Cas nodded as if his job was done, as if he had provided a solution to the brothers' plight. "I do not sense anyone else here so where are these other hunters?" he asked, trying to put the pieces together, to figure out how his two charges could get into trouble when he was gone for such a short time, not even a day, a blinking of time when compared to his existence in heaven.

"Long gone," Dean exhaled as if the matter was over, nearly forgotten.

"Is there something I can do?" Cas asked, his eyes on Dean. But he read the man's denial that he was even in pain, let alone needed aid. So he turned to Sam, who wouldn't downplay his brother's wounds, wasn't too proud to ask for his help when it came to his brother's well being.

"We could use from sterile saline solution to put in his eyes and a bottle of artificial tear drops for later. And some more bandages," Sam ticked off the mental list that he had started in his head after he went online and found out what the best first aid treatment for his brother's eyes was. Well, the best treatment if you weren't inclined to go to a doctor.

"And some pie for later," Dean smart-alecked, adding to Sam's grocery list. Was surprised when the request earned him both Sam and Cas's sharp attention.

"You will eat a pie if I get it for you?" Cas asked with surprising intensity.

Unprepared for the seriousness in Cas's eyes or the way Sam was looking at him as if he were waiting for something, Dean fidgeted on the bed. "When have I ever turned down food?" he deflected, forcing a smirk onto his features.

"You have for the past few days," Cas replied, not in judgment but in worry.

Dean's eyes flickered to Sam, not wanting his brother to know that since Famine, the very thought of food had made his stomach churn. But by the look Sam was leveling at him, Sam knew that. And knowing his little brother, he had already been wracking his brain on ways to trick him into eating or trying to decide if he could force him to eat. Again the curse of knowing each other too well was that neither of them was able to hide when they were hurting, or doing something self destructive.

"Well I could eat…" Dean meekly admitted, realized that the words were true even as he said them. That somewhere along the line that day, he had stopped being dead inside.

Then Cas was gone off on his shopping mission.

Facing Dean, Sam gave him a quick but honest smile and then doused the bandage again and began cleaning out the cut on his hip. "This one's pretty deep," he reported, free hand wrapping around his brother's leg above the knee even as he dabbed the cut with the antibiotic solution with his other hand.

"There goes my Nononsense nylon commercials," Dean quirked, liked that Sam snorted even if he didn't shift his focus from his leg.

Satisfied that the wounds were as clean and treated as he could get them, Sam plunked a chair by the bed and picked up the threaded needle, silently cursed as it vibrated it his unsteady grip. Inhaling a breath, he tried to will his body to obey him. Of course that was the problem lately. That his body, his addiction, was overriding what he wanted. He hated that it was still doing that, making him not as useful to Dean as he needed to be. Wanted to be.

Sinking into the chair at Dean's side, he stalled by inspecting the wound on his brother's arm again, wished Dean was right, that a few butterfly bandages would pull the damaged skin and muscle back together again. Knowing that his diagnosis was right, that the best thing for Dean was to stitch the wound closed, he poised the needle and tried to steady his hand. He didn't want to cause Dean more pain or do a lousy job of tending to the wound.

Sam's hesitation was too obvious for Dean to overlook. Wondering if something about the wound was bothering Sam, he looked over to the wound then to his brother. He read Sam's misery a moment before his brother's shaking hand drew his attention. Concern spiked through him. "Sam, are you alright?" he demanded, shifting, turning to face his brother, a thousand scenarios running through his head. That Sam was hurt, that his addiction wasn't over, that the detox had caused nerve damage, that Sam was too angry to patch him up…

Unprepared for his patient to sit up, turn to him and reach for his shaking hand, Sam yanked the needle away from Dean, afraid that he would jab Dean by mistake. "Whoa! What are you doing? Lay down."

"You're trembling, Sam. What's wrong? Is it the detox or are you hurt?" Dean urgently fired the questions at his brother, needing to know what was wrong before he could fix it.

Leave it to his big brother to turn the worry to him, to not be concerned that his "surgeon" had shaking hands, might stitch him up as pretty as Doc Benton. "Nothing's wrong," he denied but at Dean's heated, probing glare he grudgingly confessed, "I'm still weak from the detox." Dropping the threaded needle onto the night stand he spun to his feet, ran his hands through his hair in utter frustration and cursed, feeling a thousand times useless.

But Dean, he took the admission with relief. This scenario he could handle. "No biggie. I'll do the stitching," he stated, reaching for the needle Sam had discarded. And it was no big deal. He had patched himself up before, lots of times. Would be able to do his torso, leg and arm. And he would only need to have Sam slap some antibiotic cream and bandages on his back for that wound to heal, sort of.

Lighting fast, Sam snatched the needle from Dean's hand. "No." At Dean's sigh and patient but protesting look, he spoke more firmly. "No way, Dean. Bobby will do it…"

"How? He can't make it up the stairs, Sam, and even if he could, the angle's too hard for him to work with," Dean countered, hand held out waiting for Sam to see the logic in what he was offering.

But Sam stubbornly took a step back, held the needle hostage, prayed for another solution other than Dean having to put himself back together again. Of Dean playing contortionist and hiking his already high level of pain. As if an answer to prayers, Cas blinked into existence right beside him.

"I'm not sure exactly what "artificial tears" are but this bottle said, "natural tears," Cas rattled away, juggling his "purchases". He stilled as Sam turned to him and smiled. Had had enough experience with the Winchesters to know that look and to dread it. "What?" he demanded, his dread obvious in his tone.

By the way of an answer, Sam held up a threaded needle like he was offering up a viable weapon for his use and throwing down a challenge to him simultaneously. Tilting his head in confusion, Cas waited a second, knew that Sam, unlike Dean, wouldn't roll his eyes as he tried to catch up to what the two men were thinking.

"If you're sticking with us, this is part of it," Sam explained but the angel's confusion seemed to increase at his statement. "Patching us up, maybe us patching you up," he clarified, saw the angel's comprehensive and acceptance of the duties almost instantly. Then suddenly, the angel's eyes darkened with an emotion Sam didn't recognize.

"I…I don't know how to "patch you up"," Cas haltingly admitted, hated that it was true, that, for all his residual powers, healing wasn't one of them. It hadn't been in his array of abilities for over a year now.

Sam felt his heart soften toward Cas as he understood that what was in the angel's gaze was fear…and regret. Was convinced, in that moment, that Cas wanted to help, to even heal Dean, but he just couldn't. And Cas' pained expression of helplessness, it raised a question in Sam, reminded him of a contention he still held against Cas. It made him wonder if it was deserved.

"Sammy's a good teacher," Dean reassured, sinking back onto the bed again, relieved that he wasn't going to have to play doctor. He was confident that, between Sam and Cas, he was in good hands.

Even as Dean's compliment warmed him, Sam snorted in objection. "Dean's a better teacher but today that would be like the blind leading the blind."

"Oh you're hilarious," Dean grumbled back he was smiling.

Cas looked between the brothers, certain that he had missed something vital but also too nervous at the prospect of patching up Dean to pursue it. With hands as steady as a mountain, he took the needle from Sam's hand, stepped to the side of the bed, looked down at the wounds on Dean's arm, torso and leg and asked, "What do I need to do?"

Dean had to admit, Cas had a gentle touch for a warrior angel. Course being awake while getting stitched back together while he was under the only slightly effective haze of pain pills still hurt like a mother. There was no way that it wouldn't, no matter what Sam thought.

"Easy! Gentle!" Sam hissed as Dean flinched under Cas's ministrations. Wished, not for the first time, that it was him stitching Dean up and not Cas, an angel that had never, ever done the task before.

"How can I be _gentle_ when I'm piercing his skin with a needle," Cas said sharply, hating that he was causing Dean more pain in his effort to stop his friend's pain. Only such contradictions could exist in this troubled world.

Knowing how to defuse the tension between his two nursemaids, Dean reached for Cas' hand that was poised above the cut on his torso, groused, "I can do it." Remembered playing such mind games with Sam and his father, knew that, no matter what, they would put aside their differences if he needed them.

"No," Cas and Sam forcefully denied at the same time.

And Dean's hand was captured, not by Sam this time, but by Cas. But the grip, it was careful, gentle, as if the angel realized his own strength and didn't want to unleash too much of it upon his wounded human friend.

"I can do this for you," Cas vowed, a plea lurking in his eyes for Dean to allow him this, to trust him as he had with so many other things.

Dean nodded, was surprised that Cas didn't find this beneath him, painstakingly putting together a human, the man that started the end of the world, who had convinced him to give up his place in heaven. Who had made him believe he could find another solution, a better solution and had yet to deliver on that promise.

When Cas released his hand, Dean withdrew it, settled it back on the bed and turned to watch Sam, saw that Sam was looking at Cas in wonder, as if the angel's attitude surprised him as well. Then Sam's eyes shifted to his. When he raised his eyebrows in confusion and question, Sam shrugged back his reply, both finding that this particular angel, he was a surprise, time and time again.

With meticulous motion, Cas returned to stitching Dean's skin together, found that it wasn't so unfamiliar to him, patching Dean up. He had done something far harder for this same man, had restored Dean's ravaged, dead body so that his soul once again had an earthly home. He had always regretted that he didn't have the power to heal the man's soul, to erase the horrors of hell that scarred him. But he knew the memories, they had to remain. That the pain had to be a part of who Dean Winchester was if he was to become the man he was destined to be.

Putting in the last stitch on Dean's stomach wound, Cas almost released a humanly sigh of relief. Might have if he didn't sense that Sam intended to tell him something most likely unpleasant. To his surprise, Dean moved, rolled over in fact, and showed him that his task was not yet complete. Sharing a look with Sam, he noted the sorrow in Sam's eyes, knew that every stripe on his brother's body was like one on Sam's, but harder to take. Without a word, he set his hands to the final wound, remembered healing wounds on Dean's back before with only a touch, wounds on a dead body in a grave, wounds caused by the claws of hell hounds. When the last stitch was made, he sent Sam a searching look, knew the feel of relief when the younger Winchester nodded.

"Done?" Dean's hoarse voice questioned, his voice almost startling Cas. The man had been immobile amid the piercing of his skin, was almost like that corpse, cold and still, not yet inhabited again.

"Yeah," Sam answered as he stepped forward, wrapped his hand around Dean's arm, aided Dean in rolling over. He winced when Dean did, knew that there wasn't going to be a comfortable position for Dean to sleep in, not for awhile. Grabbing the eye drop bottle of sterile saline solution, he handed it to Dean, "This should help your eyes." Watched as Dean put the drops in his eyes, and then squeezed his eyes shut, let the solution leak out of his eyes as if they were tears. Prying the bottle from Dean's grip, he sat it back on the table and picked up a tube of antibiotic ointment. Then he carefully claimed a seat on the bed by Dean's side.

Feeling as if he were intruding, as he often felt when it came to the two brothers, Cas walked out of the room, left them to their privacy. Wondered if his absence would even be noted.

Sam caught Cas's departure, almost called out a thank you to the angel but didn't have the chance.

"Least he's using doors once in a while to leave," Dean observed, his eyes still closed but his perceptiveness as reliable as ever.

"Now if only he would come using a door," Sam wise cracked.

"Might be too much to ask."

Sam agreed but did so silently. He had already asked and received a lot from Cas. He wouldn't demand more, not now. "I'll put some ointment around your eyes to help with the burning."

"Ok."

Picking up a clean cloth off the nightstand, he gently dabbed at Dean's eyes, wiped away the excess saline solution, the streaks that seemed too close to tears. Then he put some of the ointment on his fingers and lightly stroked them under Dean's eyes, on the blistered, red skin that Devon's makeshift eye repellent had left behind. Dean's eyes twitched at the touch but Dean didn't open his eyes or flinch away, left his brother's ministration continue without protest.

"Think I've got it covered pretty good," Sam quietly said, not sure if the words were for him or for Dean.

Dean offered up a "hhhmnn"' in reply, sleep pulling at him with his brother's tender touch and the ointment's soothing properties. Somewhere he registered when Sam's hand left him and a soft cloth came to rest over his eyes. Would have fought the new darkness but it was one of comfort now and safety because, Sam was still sitting beside him. He didn't need to open his eyes to know that. He and Sam were together, no one was trying to kill them at the moment so getting a little sleep, he could afford that small luxury at least for a little while.

SNSNSNSN

Sam watched Dean sleep, knew that it was only one of the many things he had missed when Dean died, when he had gone off with Ruby, when he had been locked in the panic room. The contentment of knowing his brother was asleep in the next bed, that even in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness, in some new place, contemplating taking out whatever evil the town boasted, he wasn't alone. That Dean was with him, that they would face things together. After Dean had died, it had been hardest waking up and finding that second bed empty, of waking up knowing that there was no second bed, that there was only one bed and it was his, of finding Ruby in his arms and an ache in his heart that proved to him that resolving the issue of being alone wasn't the same as filling the hole in him, the hole where Dean once was. And being chained to that bed in the panic room with a version of Dean pacing around him, it was a bitter sweet wish come true. Something he forced, demanded…that his addicted mind had seen fit to twist.

He startled when Cas came to a stop at his side, joined his protective guard over his brother. Looked up at the angel, he saw the way Cas studied Dean, as if he were able to judge his brother's physical wellbeing just by standing there. But there was also a softening in the angel's demeanor, made him believe that the angel hated to see Dean hurt, almost as much as he did. It reinforced what he had come to suspect. "After Dean was attacked by Alistair, when I asked you to heal him, you weren't refusing to be stubborn, were you?"

"No," Cas answered, his tone clipped. Then he spared Sam a glance, knew that the man wanted more from him, wanted the truth. And it was maybe time for that type of honesty. He had called Sam Winchester his friend, it was time to start trusting him like he would a friend. "After I brought Dean out of hell, I healed him. And after that I…" it was harder to voice the truth than he realized it would be, to admit that weakness. Sam saved him the humiliation.

"You couldn't heal any more. You had used up all of your ability to heal on Dean, on bringing Dean back to life," Sam concluded, the pieces coming together to form a true picture.

"Yes," Cas admitted, eyes swiveling again to Dean, to the man that he had lost so much for, because he believed in him, in his destiny, in his goodness.

Gratitude surged in Sam that Cas had been the one to pull Dean from hell, that the angel had healed his brother, had stuck with Dean on his path to his destiny and hadn't abandoned Dean when he sought to defy the designs of heaven. But he had to wonder if Cas cursed the day he had heard Dean's name. "You ever think that you got the wrong assignment? Wish that someone else had gone to hell to get Dean out?"

Cas's reply was instantaneous and certain as his eyes unflinchingly met Sam's. "No. It was an honor." Then he looked again to the wounded man, to the first man he had called friend, to the man he considered his brother. "And it still is."

SNSNSNSNSNS

It was agony and it was fear and it was heat and it was despair and it was never ending. Long after his screams had rendered his voice useless, long after his mind couldn't find a way to escape, long after a physical body would have ceased to survive, he was still there, still felt every cut, every broken part of his body, his soul. And he knew it would go on like that, for eternity…if he didn't say yes, didn't reach out his hand, didn't face the fact that there was no such thing as goodness where he was, that there was no part of his soul to protect, to safeguard. He had nothing more of himself to lose.

Then a loved voice echoed in his despair, pulled him from the agony, reminded him that there was still something to lose, a part of him that deserved to be protected, safeguarded. The part of him that he had given to Sam. And it was his brother's voice that was calling for him. Then a hand was reaching out for him, touching him, a hand that was gentle, its grip soft, familiar.

Jerking awake, Dean heaved in breath, his heart racing. Then he saw his brother, saw Sam's worried features hovering over him. "Hey," he groggily greeted, fighting to rid himself of the images of the nightmare, of the memories.

"Hey," Sam returned, keeping his hand on Dean's chest, able to feel the sharp beat of his brother's heart under his hand. "How are you feeling?" knew it was an open question. He would take any answer Dean offered.

"Better," Dean answered, focused on the physical aspect of Sam's question, purposefully ignored the other probe. "How come you're not sacked out too?" he asked, seeing the exhaustion clearly marked on his brother's face.

"Couldn't sleep." But honestly Sam never tried, had found it more relaxing sitting beside Dean than slipping into any type of rest.

Dean tried to sit up but Sam held him against the bed with his hand on his chest.

"Whoa, where you going. You've barely slept an hour," Sam protested, had had some hope that the fatigue in his brother's eyes would have faded away with the bloodshot whites. Hated that he had hoped in vain.

"Sleep is overrated," Dean pointed out, smiling bitterly.

It was the breaking point for Sam, the point where he was going to stage his own intervention, do for Dean what his brother had tried to do for him, though he had screwed that up, had bolted the first chance he got, went out hunting for Ruby. Shaking his head of those dark memories, he steadily met Dean's eyes. "You can't keep this up, Dean."

"What?" Dean parried, hoped the conversation wasn't going where he thought it might be.

"The not sleeping, the barely eating…..accepting Famine's lies," Sam forced himself to uncover all the truths that they weren't talking about, did it because he cared too much to watch silently as Dean suffered.

Gruffly Dean retorted, "Alright, therapy time is up," and he shoved Sam's hand off of him, sat up, was slightly surprised when Sam stood up, seemed willing to abandon the road he had started traveling down. But then, instead of heading out the door, his brother sat beside him on the bed, drew his leg up on the side of the bed and faced him, wearing his determined but devoted little brother expression. '_Ah crap_,' Dean thought, knew that this time Sam wasn't going to let him skitter away from him with no answers or even with half truths.

Drawing in a breath, eyes pinned to Dean's, Sam began, "I don't know how you feel, what it was like in hell, how much you're hurting…" He flinched when Dean looked away because it was proof that Dean was indeed hurting, hurting too badly to cover it up, to hide it from his little brother like he wanted to. "But I know that I want to help. That I would do anything to take away some of your pain, some of the pain of losing the people that we have, of all that you've been through, at the way I've betrayed you." With that last clause, Dean swung his look to him, opened his mouth to again forgive him but Sam pressed on. "You're not dead inside, Dean. You've just buried everything to get through the days. But doing that…it's only making you suffer more."

'_Maybe it's what I deserve Sam, but only a small taste of what I deserve_.' Aloud Dean asked rhetorically, "What should I do, Sam? Cry? Scream? Sack out on a therapist's couch and spill my guts?" knew that none of it would help, that even Sam had to know that.

"Yes," Sam bluntly answered, got a wide eyes reaction from Dean at the one word reply. "Cry. Scream. Talk about it. Just don't…" he clamped his jaw shut, looked away, cursed himself for not making it through without getting emotional.

"Don't what?" Dean prodded gently, knew that Sam was hurting too. That his pain wasn't the only thing between them. That Sam had his own pain, his own guilt to work through.

Meeting Dean's open expression, encouraged by his brother's soft question, Sam finished his plea. "Don't give up. On yourself. I'm not going to give up on you, Dean. Not ever again. And Famine didn't know anything about your goodness, about the terrible pain that comes when you allow yourself to care too much. You care what happens to the world, you've always made it your mission to take care of me and you've added Bobby and even an angel into that mission! You ask the impossible out of yourself and accept the very least from the people you love. Famine only knew about taking…not giving, Dean. To him, you were dead…because you don't take, don't have the need to take. You're all about giving of yourself. All of yourself. But you have to keep some of that for you, Dean. You can't give every ounce of your energy, your heart and your soul to saving others and keep none of it back for yourself. No one wants that type of sacrifice from you. Bobby, Cas and I, we want you here, with us, well enough to stand at our side. Because fighting this battle without you, it's something I can't do, Dean. If you fall…I'll have nothing to fight for. What's the point of saving a world of strangers if I already lost my family."

"Sam, don't say that."  
"What? The truth? We're fighting for a billion people who, if they knew us, would feel about us like Devon does, that we're the evil ones, the ones to be afraid of. But we're fighting to save them anyway because it's the right thing to do, because it's what we've been raised to do, save strangers. Just don't think that I'm strong enough to exchange saving the world for losing you, because I'm not. If the choice comes down to you or a billion strangers…"

"You'll make the right choice," Dean assertively answered, knew Sam's heart even if his brother didn't.

Sam shook his head in denial. "You don't know that. When you left me before…I got…lost, Dean."

"But you found your way, Sam."

"Yeah, because of you, Dean. Only because of you. So if you're still thinking I'll be fine without you, that the fight will go on if you surrender…you're as wrong as you were before. My strength comes from what we have between us, from you standing with me, us fighting together. So how about you stop trying to leave me, huh?" He paused there, saw that his words were sinking in before he lightly threatened, "So stop mistreating yourself or I'll kick your butt. I will, Dean."

"You and what army?" Dean challenged back, knew that Sam had said his piece and was trying to find a graceful, even manly way to exit the chick flick conversation. Sam nodded at his words, silently thanked him for the barb, for letting him get back on solid ground. "It goes both ways, you know?" Dean said, had to make Sam see that his little speech wasn't just about how he felt. At Sam's raised eyebrow of confusion, he explained, "I need you beside me too, Sam." He left Sam accept that before he added, "So no more solo trips to the panic room to avoid me…"

"You're a jerk," Sam laughed even as he couldn't believe he found humor in his recent addictions. Only Dean could turn the most horrendous events into jokes. It was one of the things he loved most about his brother.

Dean accepted the compliment with a cocky smile.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Against his little brother's objections, Dean made his way to the kitchen table for dinner, though he had a 6 foot 4 inch figure shadowing his every step. Sinking into the chair, that of course Sam pulled out for him, Dean felt exhausted but in a good way, a satisfied way. Was kind of awed to see that Bobby, Sam and Cas were all seated around the table, as if it were a regular occurrence.

He eyed the spread of food on the table with suspicion before he looked to Bobby, who sat at the opposite end of the table. "Thought there wasn't much food in the house, that you needed something from the store," repeating the words the older hunter had said that morning to shove him out the door.

Bobby's face actually turned red. Then, to Dean's surprise, the older man directed his answer to Sam, not him.

"I was wrong. Everything we need is right here." Bobby hoped Sam knew what he was saying. That he was admitting that he had been wrong, one hundred percent, in thinking that the brothers needed time apart. Had been crazy to think that what they needed was anything other than each other. Sam's gentle smile was a beaming pardon for his transgressions and Bobby smiled back.

Not sure what was going on between Sam and Bobby, Dean turned to Cas, who sat at his right, wondered if the angel was as confused as he was. He was startled to see the angel was busy eating, like an average ordinary human being who had been asked over for dinner. "So you're eating now, regularly?"

"It doesn't seem to harm this vessel…or me," Cas answered noncommittally, but Dean smiled until he confessed, "Yes, I like the taste of food."

Nodding his head at the angel's admission, Dean looked back into the living room, to the broken windows that were now covered by plywood, most likely courtesy of Rufus. Swinging his gaze back to Bobby, he said, "Hope you thanked Rufus for us. I'm kinda surprised he bothered to get involved but his arrival was awesomely timed."

"Yeah, about that…" Bobby began, tugging on the brim of the hat that he wore.

The older man's nervous tell caused Dean to freeze. "What?" he asked, dread building, wondering what unforeseen trouble Bobby was about to reveal.

"Rufus said he didn't know a thing about Grant's little trial," Bobby's statement caused all three of his house guests to stare at him in confusion.

"Then why was he here?" Sam asked, uncertainty in his tone. As far as he understood, Rufus wasn't the Christmas card type …or the visiting type either.

Bobby shook his head, "Car trouble, if you believe it."

"Car trouble?' Dean repeated as if he might have misheard. "Am I missing something?"

"If you are, then so am I," Bobby heaved out his breath. "Said he was running down the interstate when his car starting having fits, figured I was the closest mechanic he could get to who wouldn't care what weapons he had stashed in the bed of his truck."

"So it was…a coincidence," Sam haltingly spelled out, eyes meeting Dean's, because they both knew how they felt about coincidences.

"If you believe in that type of thing. But there's more." Bobby had regained all three pairs of eyes again before he forced himself to complete the tale. "When I went to check his car…dang thing started right up, no problems. Darn near purred."

Dean pointedly turned to Cas as if it was the angel's turn to explain things.

"I had nothing to do with that," Cas immediately denied under Dean's scrutiny. "If I had known you were in danger, I would have come myself, I wouldn't have caused a car to malfunction so a hunter might show up and might be useful in defusing a violent confrontation," his own guilt at not being there when Dean and Sam needed him flaring to the surface.

Dean raised his hand, "OK. Ok, Cas. Don't get your boxers in a twist."

Sam tried to be subtle about it, had snagged Dean's plate when Dean had swung around to inspect the broken windows, had spooned small portions of food onto the plate as Cas offered up his denials. But now there were no more distractions to cover his actions, leaving him stuck sliding the plate back in front of Dean with Dean tracking his every movement.

When Sam returned his plate to its proper place in front of him, Dean noted the careful distribution of food on his plate before giving Sam a defiant stare. But Sam didn't cower, instead his brother's chin raised in that pit-bull stubborn way of his. If he tried to fight Sam on this, he knew that he was going to lose. Like he had when he was three and had wanted to leave the table before eating his vegetables. Maybe Sam was more like his mom than he ever realized.

Picking up his fork, he sensed that all eyes were on him, as if they were waiting for him to perform a circus trick. "I know, I'm fascinating to watch," he drawled, but the eye contact didn't loosen. Sighing in over exaggerated frustration, he stabbed a piece of beef and shoved it in his mouth. The action satisfied his audience enough for them to turn back to the food on their own plates instead of on his. But he didn't miss the glances Sam kept shooting over at him, as if he were an anorexic who might dash off to do the purge thing.

To settle Sam's worries, he made almost a show of heartily digging into his food. And then, before he knew, he had cleared off his plate, even had a craving for second helpings. Sam smugly handed him the bowl of potatoes before he even asked for it.

SNSNSNSNSN

Somehow Dean had managed to escape from under Sam's watchful eye, to slip out to the salvage yard. Leaning up against the Impala, he studied the stars overhead. It seemed unreal that only a few days ago he had stood there, certain that he was at the end of his rope, begging God to help him. And now…things were better, in so many different ways. Sam was weak but free of the blood's addiction, they had more allies on their side than they had ever thought they would and he and Sam were…better. Were almost good. Honestly good.

And he could write it down as a coincidence, the new turn of happy events, just like he could count Rufus stopping in because he had car trouble that disappeared coincidentally. But he didn't believe in coincidences. But the alternative..he wasn't sure he wanted to go there. '_If you didn't think praying would do any good then why did you pray in the first place? Admit it, you believe in prayer, that God would listen, that God would help. And now that He has, that He did…now you want to pretend it was a fluke._'

He heard the angel shuffle behind him, knew that, announcing his presence, it was Cas' way of trying to be considerate. "God answers prayers sometimes, right?" he asked, found it easier to ask without having to look at Cas, to see the angel's hope that he had turned a corner in his faith.

"God hears all prayers, Dean," Cas earnestly replied, came to stand before his friend, surprised by the question. "Sometimes He answers them in ways that are unexpected…maybe even unwelcome but always for the person's own wellbeing."

"Hurt me to help me, huh?" Dean said, dropped his look from the heavens to his angel companion. He saw contemplation on Cas' features, even worry.

"Sometimes. There have been many great servants to God that have gone through many trials and tribulations," Cas pointed out, knew that Dean was one of them, that his pain wasn't something that should be denied, forgotten.

"So having a crappy time sometimes just means the big guy loves us?" Dean sallied back, trying to get his head around the way God worked.

"Yes," Cas affirmed, eyes locked with Dean's. "God doesn't always remove the need for battle but He will give you the strength to go on, to be victorious, for good things to come out of the bad."

"Victorious. Is this what victory feels like?" he scoffed, his hand coming up to brace the wound on his torso.

"You are alive, are with the people who love you and I sense some contentment in you…and in Sam," Cas stated. No longer blindsided by the ache that usually emanated off of his friend, he knew that, whatever had transpired that day, it had done some good.

"We're alive to fight another day," Dean downplayed.

"Together." By the way Dean looked at him, Cas knew Dean got his meaning, clearly Because Cas did know what mattered to Dean, more than his own survival. That being with his brother, being able to trust his brother, not only to have his back but to entrust his heart to him was what Dean had been missing fiercely. And that had been restored to him, the certainty that he and Sam were a family, were brothers again, in the truest sense.

Looking down at his feet, Dean scuffed the ground. "I prayed, you know. For help. After Sam…" he broke off didn't want to say it aloud, to remember Sam in that panic room, crying out for him, for all he knew, dying. He drew in a breath but still didn't raise his eyes to Cas.

"And He answered your prayers," Cas quietly said, not in awe that God answered Dean Winchester's prayer but that Dean was ready to admit that was what happened.

"I got knocked out, tied up, beat up, blinded and sliced up and put on trial..thought Sam and I were going to get executed," Dean listed incredulously and then he braved Cas's inspection. "But I'm…better, Cas. It…helped, crazy as that sounds." He raised his hand to halt Cas's next words, "Don't quote the Bible to me, Cas."

Cas nodded but the words burned in his heart, had to be said even if only in his own head, '_The effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much_.' But when Dean started to walk by him he reached out, wrapped his hand around Dean's arm. "You're not alone, Dean."

"What? God's always with me?" Dean challenged was surprised when Cas nearly snorted, broke into an expression that was the infantile stages of an honest smile.

"Well, yes He is, but I was talking about myself," Cas admitted, almost sheepishly.

Dean reached out, patted Cas on the chest, "That's good to know Cas…on both accounts." And it was, made the weight he carried lighter. "Now earlier you promised me pie…"

SNSNSNSNSN

When Dean and Cas turned the corner, they could see Sam standing on the porch, hands on his hips and a scowl on his face. When Sam spied them and stalked off the porch, Cas said, "I don't have need for more food," and then he disappeared even as Dean hissed, "coward."

'_So much for him having my back_,' Dean groused and then he turned on the charm for his brother. "Sammy, you want to take a walk under the stars too?"

"What I want is to not wonder where you are? Dean, I looked all over for you! In the house, in the salvage yard, by the Impala!" Sam ticked off the locations on his fingers as he towered over his brother.

Dean shrugged but it turned into a wince, the wound on his back sending him a message of displeasure. "Went for a walk then hung out by the Impala," he admitted, hand coming up to press the base of his spine, as if that would shortcut the pain.

Sam sighed, couldn't be mad in the face of Dean's obvious pain, could still be frustrated though. "Great time for a walk," he reprimanded but his tone was gentle and he was gripping his brother's elbow and helping him up the steps and into Bobby's empty kitchen. He pushed Dean into a chair before going to the sink and filling a glass with water. Sitting the water on the table along with the bottle of pain pills he claimed a chair to Dean's right, watched in satisfaction as Dean swallowed down three pills.

"Heck of a day, huh?" Sam chose as a starter.

"Yeah, like that's new for us," Dean parried back, wondered where this was going because Sam seemed to have a purpose. He usually did. "What are you thinking?" he decided to go the direct route, had had too long a day to talk weather and sports stats.

For a moment Sam tapped his finger on the table wouldn't look at him and then when he did, Dean could see the pain, the confusion in his brother's eyes.

Knowing that Dean was the safest person for him to be vulnerable around, Sam admitted what was in his heart. "I miss them, Dean."

And the forlornness in his brother's voice hurt Dean. He didn't need Sam to say their names, they had been tossed about all day. Knew too, that, it wasn't just the most recent people they had lost that Sam missed. There was a long list. "I know. I do too."

Dean's admission, it strengthened Sam, made him know that he wasn't alone in his pain. "How do we honor them, what they did, make their sacrifices worth something?"

They were the hardest questions Sam had ever asked him, the questions that he had asked himself time and time again, at every loss he had suffered. Had asked himself when his mother died, how he could honor her memory, keep her with him, never lose her. "I chose to be brave because I thought Mom would want me to be. I chose to keep hunting because I thought Dad would want that from me. I guess we all have our own ways to honor the ones we love. Me, I …I keep them in my heart, remember why I loved them, that they left me only because they had to. That Dad did it because he thought it was the best way he could help me..think Jo and Ellen and even Pamela felt the same way. They fought, died to help us, so we could carry on the fight. Guess that's the way we honor them best, by remembering that we loved them, by not giving up, to keep fighting until we finish what they fought for."

"It's a lot to carry," Sam admitted, knew the weight Dean carried, that he carried, that the load was heavy already.

And Dean thought about that, what he owed so many people, the responsibility he had. And then he remembered the first big responsibility that he had been given, had been entrusted with. Taking care of his little brother. That type of responsibility, it was the greatest thing anyone had asked of him …until God tapped him on the shoulder to save the world that he had broken. "Some weight, Sammy, is an honor to carry," he admitted, saw Sam's confusion and took pity on the kid like he always did. "Dad trusted me to take care of you and look how well that turned out. And you would know what I'm talking about if you hadn't refused to carry me up the stairs this afternoon."

"I didn't refuse! Besides you wouldn't have let me…" Sam heatedly shot back, couldn't believe Dean was going to turn this around on him.

"Always with the excuses, Sammy. First you used to tell Dad that I was too heavy, then it was you were way younger than me, than it was you were carrying the heavier weapons," Dean reminisced, climbing to his feet, knew that Sam would stay at his side. And his little brother didn't let him down, surged out of his chair and was pacing him as he headed into the living room. Sam was sticking by his side, no matter what, Dean knew that now. Trusted in that.

"After the poison ivy thing you refused to let me carry you, even after you had your leg all chewed up," Sam shot back, pacing Dean, wasn't going to let his brother have selective memory about this.

"When was my leg chewed up?" Dean countered, didn't remember anything like that happening, not that he couldn't walk on it, needed his little shrimpy brother to carry him.

"You two want to shut up!" Bobby growled from the bed by the window. "Isn't it enough I got bugs crawling through the broken windows into my bed now I gotta listen to you two all night long?"

For a moment the brothers almost responded with a "Yes sir" but they shared a look first, remembered that they weren't boys anymore. Dean snorted, "Bobby it's like…seven o'clock in the evening. I had no idea it was past your beddy bye time. You want Sammy to read you a story, tuck you in bed?"

"Its nine o'clock and I don't know why I put up with you two!" Bobby railed back, turning his back on the two men who were grinning widely. '_Cause I love the jerks, that's why_.' Hearing them make their way up the stairs, he couldn't stop himself from calling out, "You owe me new windows and….and a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue."

Halting on the steps, Dean looked over the railing into the living room, studied Bobby's back that was turned to him. "Johnny Walker Blue? You upgrading from your rot gut?"

"No," Bobby petulantly replied. But he could hear the house creak in the silence that fell, knew Dean wouldn't let it go, would hound him until he spilled it. "Figure it's the least I owe Rufus for saving your stupid behinds."

"Awwww, he does care," Sam sarcastically drawled, his laughter in harmony with Dean's.

Their laughter echoed throughout the house and secretly, Bobby loved the sound. It was the sound his wife said the house was always missing: The sound of children laughing. '_Guess some prayers do get answered in some unforeseen ways_.' But that didn't mean he wasn't grateful, from the bottom of his heart.

Heading up the stairs, Sam trailed closely behind Dean, kept his hand hovering above his brother's back, was surprised, though he knew he shouldn't be, when Dean kept glancing back at him as if checking if he needed _his_ help. Sam smiled at the proof that Dean hadn't given up his big brother role, that he hadn't given up on him. That they weren't giving up on each other. Ever.

Seeing Sam's smile, Dean almost rolled his eyes, could guess that Sam was immersed in a chick flick moment in his head. But instead of jeering at his brother, he returned his smile. Like Cas had said, they were alive, together and that was enough to make him realize that Famine had been wrong, he wasn't dead inside, felt too good right then to believe that lie anymore.

With new conviction Dean vowed that he would take a page out of Ellen's book, that no matter how bleak things got, he wouldn't abandon his family. That whether they won or lost, he and Sam would do it together, because love didn't die and families, they stayed together, to the very end.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNNSNSNS

Thanks so much for everyone who read this story and was kind enough to encourage me to finish it, though the storyline had to take an AU route. I'm so glad that I was able to post it before the season five finale!

And a million thank yous to my awesome beta! She's wonderful enough to trudge through all my stories and rewrites! Without her help, you wouldn't want to even bother trying to read my ramblings!

"The effectual, fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much" ~ James 5:16

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.


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